»hWfi5MM 

OLD  BELGIUM 

ELIZABETH  W.  CHAMPNEY  - 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


The  Descent  from  the  Cross,  by  Rubens,  Antwerp 

From  a  photograph  by  Woodbury 


ROMANCE  OF  OLD 
BELGIUM 

FROM  OESAR  TO  KAISER 


BY 
ELIZABETH  W.  CHAMPNEY 

AND 

FRERE  CHAMPNEY 


WITH  90  ILLUSTRATIONS 


G.    P.    PUTNAM'S    SONS 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
Gbe    ■Knickerbocker    press 
1915 


Copyright,  1915 

BY 

ELIZABETH   W.  CHAMPNEY 

Second  Impression 


JSbc  Itnlckerbocfcct  pre«»,  t*ew  IBork 


c 


^  PREFACE 

\  \  fHILE  the  Belgium  of  today  is  overwhelmed  by  a 
'  »       "volcanic  uprush  of  hell,"  the  heart-sick  be- 
holder turns   gladly   to  contemplation  of  its  glorious 
past. 

No  land  has  ever  been  so  harried  with  sword  and 

flame  by  the  invader,  or  has  sprung  more  phcenix-like 

•J        from  its  ashes.     Thus  will  she  surely  rise  again,  though 

neither  campaigns  of  Caesar  nor  Spanish  Fury  have 

^      dealt  such  devastation  as  the  present  war. 

"With  a  pity  for  buildings,  which  he  did  not  exercise 
toward  human  beings, "  Philip  II.  of  Spain  commanded 
his  troops  to  respect  churches  and  monasteries.  But 
apart  from  religious  considerations,  there  is  good  reason 
vk  for  the  protection  of  architecture,  since  a  masterpiece 
belongs  not  to  a  nation  alone  but  to  all  the  world  and 
should  live  forever. 

There  is  a  peculiar  pathos  in  the  destruction  of  the 
J       Belgian  churches,  since  the  sensuous  faith  that  created 
them  is  dead,  and  their  marvels  of  sculpture,  painting, 
and  glass  may  never  again  spring  into  beauty. 

The  mediaeval  guild-halls,  castles,  abbeys,  and  Iwtds 
de    villes,   with    their    treasures   of   lace,   embroidery, 


-    ;  A  ) 


iv  Preface 

carvings,  armour,  and  tapestries,  should  have  been 
preserved  as  historical  monuments.  In  the  burning  of 
these  structures  one  sees,  as  though  illuminated  by 
their  flames,  the  vanished  men  and  women  who  builded, 
fought,  reigned,  loved,  and  suffered  therein; — appari- 
tions that  have  flitted,  since  the  habitations  which  they 
haunted  are  ruined. 

A  half-score  of  episodes  is  too  narrow  a  canvas  on 
which  to  depict  the  history  of  a  nation.  It  may,  how- 
ever, serve  to  suggest  the  temper  of  its  people  during 
supreme  moments  of  liberty  and  oppression. 

We  will  pause  on  the  stepping-stones  of  centuries  to 
note,  only,  significant  events  and  characters.  Beginning 
with  the  legend  of  Cassar's  Nervian  wife,  from  whom 
Julius  Sabinus  boasted  descent,  we  shall  pass  to  the 
year  500,  to  recount  the  romance  of  Clotilde  and  her 
barbarian  lover.  The  Quatre  Fils  Aymon  will  then  lead 
us  to  the  Empire  of  Charlemagne,  a  mountain  top, 
where  the  old  world  sets  in  darkness  and  the  new  rises 
in  the  dawn  of  civilization. 

With  the  opening  of  the  twelfth  century,  at  the  Castle 
of  Bouillon,  in  leafy  Ardennes,  we  shall  meet  with 
Godfrey,  the  noblest  knight  of  all  Christendom;  and 
Froissart,  with  less  reserve  than  he  manifests  in  his 
chronicles,  shall  relate  his  own  heart-history,  the 
romance  of  Philippa,  and  the  guileful  patriotism  of 
Van  Artevelde. 

Arras  of  the  fifteenth  century  will  unroll  a  portrait 


Preface  v 

of  fervent  Jacqueline,  and  from  the  sixteenth  shall  step 
heroic  figures,  Orange  and  Egmont,  crafty  Granvelle 
and  cruel  Alva. 

In  the  studio  of  Rubens  we  shall  see  sumptuous 
women, 

"Whose  forms  upon  his  canvases  still  blush, 
With  fire  of  unimagined  colours  tender. " 

Here  too  we  shall  meet  van  Dyck's  aristocrats  and 
listen  to  the  mirth  of  Teniers's  roysterers. 

In  the  eighteenth  century,  we  may  disentangle 
a  thread  of  intrigue  from  a  web  of  Mechlin  lace. 
At  Waterloo,  in  1815,  we  shall  witness  the  fatal 
charge  of  the  Cuirassiers  and  the  death-blow  to 
tyranny. 

Finally,  in  our  own  day,  we  shall  tread  the  trail  of 
the  "Devastating  Hun,"  and  look  upon  the  results 
of  his  "appalling  world  crime." 

In  the  Palais  de  la  Nation,  at  Brussels,  the  por- 
traits of  Clovis,  Charlemagne,  Godfrey,  and  their 
great  compeers,  look  down  resentfully  upon  the 
Invader. 

Great  warriors!  Sheathe  your  swords!  Belgium 
endures  for  the  last  time  the  Iron  Cross  of  War.  "A 
federation  of  the  world  shall  establish  a  universal 
republic,  which  will  make  the  Game  of  Kings  forever 
impossible." 


vi  Preface 

THE  IRON  CROSS 

Belgium!    Thou  little  land  of  sorrows  sore, 
Rent  with  what  ravishment  of  sword  and  flame, 
Since  Caesar  yoked  thy  tribes  in  Roman  name 
And  Clovis  first  the  cross  upraised  of  yore; 
While  Charlemagne  the  banner  bravely  bore, 
Ere  Godfrey  waved  it  o'er  Jerusalem, 
And  Froissart  penned  thy  deeds  for  deathless  fame, 
Till  Alva  once  anew  thy  heart-strings  tore! 

Whose  Egmont  gave  his  all  thy  might  to  save, 

And  Rubens'  brush  begot  a  golden  age, 

Le  Grand  Monarque  thy  southern  kingdom  reft, 

Till  what,  of  latent  life,  Napoleon  left 

At  Waterloo,  with  war-besotted  rage, 

Thy  garden,  now  a  Kaiser  makes  a  grave! 


CONTENTS 

PART  I 
LOOT 

CHAPTER  PACK 

I. — The  She  Wolf's  Litter.     (A  Legend  of 

THE   NERVIl) 6 

II. — The  Lily  and  the  Bee.     (A  Merovingian 

Romance)  ......      63 

III. — The  Sons  of  Aymon  and  a  Daughter  of 

Charlemagne     .....       89 

IV. — A   Boar  of  the  Ardennes.      (Sequel  to 

The  Sons  of  Aymon)  .         .         .124 

V. — A  Tale  of  Tales.     (The  Hermit's  Crusade)     148 

VI. — "An  It  Please  Thee,  Philippa."     (A  Lost 

Chronicle  of  Froissart)   .         .         .191 


PART  II 

WEBS  OF  OUDENAARDE 

VII. — An    Abandoned    Tapestry.      (An    Errant 

Princess)   ......     237 

VIII.— A  Rat  i'  the  Arras.  (The  Story  of  Egmont)     280 

vii 


viii  Contents 

CHAPTER  PACK 

IX. — The  Lost  Tapestry: 

i.    The  Cardinal's  Alb.   .         .         .  315 

11.    The  Spurious  Van  Dyck     .         .  335 

X. — Waterloo 351 

I.  The  Duchess  of  Richmond's  Ball  352 

II.  The  Doves  of  Hougomont         .  357 
hi.     Sixty  Years  after     .         .         .  363 

XI. — Blood  Kindred    (A  Romance  of  Today)     .  374 

XII. — Some    Notable    Examples    of     Belgian 

Architecture     .....  408 

Chapters  XI,  XII,  and  the  verses,  where  not  otherwise 
credited,  are  by  Frere  Champney. 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PACK 

The    Descent    from    the    Cross,    by    Rubens, 

Antwerp Frontispiece 

From  a  photograph  by  Woodbury 

"In  a  Ruined  Belgian  Abbey"    ....        2 

From  a  copyright  photograph  by  the  Topical  News  Agency 

"They  Left  the  Papers  there  to  Scud  about, 
the  Sport  of  Every  Breeze"  3 

From  a  copyright  photograph  by  the  Topical  News  Agency 

In  the  Palais  de  la  Nation,  Clovis,  Charlemagne, 
Godfrey,  and  their  Great  Compeers,  with 
Drawn  Swords,  Look  down  like  Angry  Ghosts 
upon  the  Invader    ......        6 

Reproduced  by  permission  of  Brown  &  Dawson 

"Where  C/esar  Overcame  the  Nervii." — "Now 
Lazy  Windmills  Ply  their  Filmy  Fans"  .        7 

From  a  drawing  by  Albert  Chanler 

"With  Spear  and  Javelin-Thrust  they  Rushed 
upon  the  Stag."     "The  Chase, "by  Rubens    .      40 

Gemaldegalerie,     Berlin.     Photographische     Gesellschaft, 
Berlin 

quentin  matsys,  the  blacksmith  artist,  who 
Linked  the  Fifteenth  and  Sixteenth  Cen- 
turies       41 

is 


Illustrations 


"Towers  of  Turnacum."  "Pont  de  Trous," 
Tournai 54 

From  a  drawing  by  Albert  Chanler 

" Unaffrighted  the  Boys  Confronted  the  Bear"   55 

Musee  de  Saint-Germain.    L'Age  de  la  Pierre  polie,  par  F. 
Cormon.     ND  Phot. 

"Ancient  Towers  of  Cortoricum."  The  Bridge 
of  Courtrai 58 

From  a  drawing  by  Albert  Chanler 

Clovis.  "Long  Flaxen  Braids  Fell  from  be- 
neath his  Helmet  " 59 

Musee  de  Saint-Germain.    Statue  by  Fremiet.    Permis- 
sion of  Neurdein 

"In  a  Cloister  I  Saw  a  Lily  Open  her  Heart  to 
a  Bee."  "All  in  a  Garden  of  Peace-Garnered 
Gloom" 70 

From  Album  Historique  de  la  Belgique,  by  H.  Van  der  Linden 

and  H.  Obreen 
Reproduced  by  permission  of  G.  Van  Oest  &  Company 

"An  Ancient  Fortified  Gate."  Twin  Towers  of 
the  "  Rabot,  "  Ghent 71 

From  Album  Historique  de  la  Belgique,  by  H.  Van  der  Linden 

and  H.  Obreen 
Reproduced  by  permission  of  G.  Van  Oest  &  Company 

"The  Donjon  of  Dinant  Overfrowning  the 
Slumbering  Town  and  its  Placid  River".         .       92 

From  a  copyright  photograph  by  Underwood  &  Underwood, 

N.Y. 

"Tilting  at  the  Quintain,  their  Favourite  Di- 
version"   93 

From  Album  Historique  de  la  Belgique,  by  H.  Van  der  Linden 

and  H.  Obreen 
Reproduced  by  permission  of  G.  Van  Oest  &  Company 


Illustrations 


XI 


98 


"Reynault  and  his  Mettlesome  Charger, 
Bayard"  

(Rembrant) 

Photographische  Gesellschaft,  Berlin 

"Built  about  a  Spacious  Cloister  Surrounded 
by  an  Ogival  Arcade."    The  Arch-Episcopal 

Palace,  Liege 99 

From  a  photograph  by  W.  A.  Mansell  &  Co. 

"Sad  as  the  Grail-Knight,  when  he  Parted  from 
Blanchefleur  " 112 

(Abbey) 

Reproduced  by  permission  of  Curtis  &  Cameron,  Copley 
Print  Co. 

"Anon  the  Sounding  Clariounes  Boldly  Blare." 
"Then  sudden  All  the  Knyghtes  Set  Lance 
in  Rest" 113 

From  Album  Historique  de  la  Belgique,  by  H.  Van  der  Linden 

and  H.  Obreen 
Reproduced  by  permission  of  G.  Van  Oest  &  Company 

"Anon  ye  Dogges  Drive  on — onlye  again  to  Fal 
in  Mangled  Gore."  The  Boar  Hunt,  by  Franz 
Snyders 124 

The  Uffizi  Gallery,  Florence 

"Today  the  Castle's  Claws  are  Clipped  and  its 
Beak  Broken."  Donjon  of  the  Castle  of 
Godfrey  of  Bouillon      .  .         .  149 

From  Album  Historique  de  la  Belgique,  by  H.  Van  der  Linden 
and  H.  Obreen 

"  Prayed  Godefroy, — that  thy  Grete  Sepulcher 
by  Help  of  thee."  "This  Daye  mine  Host 
for  Christendomme  shall  Free!"   .  .186 

Metropolitan   Museum   of   Art,    New  York.     (Kaulbach, 
Wilhelm) 


xii  Illustrations 

PACK 

"An  it  Please  you,  Philippa"      ....     187 

From  Froissart's  Chronicles 

"The  Grim    Gravensteen."    ChAteau   of   the 
Count  of  Flanders  .....     204 

Cloister  Arches,  Abbey  of  Saint  Bavon  (Ghent)    205 
From  a  photograph  by  Levy 

"Upon  their  Surcoats  and  Shields  Ramped  the 
Lion  of  Flanders."  The  Count  of  Flanders, 
Louis  de  Male,  and  his  Mother      .         .         .214 

From  Album  Historique  de  la  Belgique,  by  H.  Van  der  Linden 

and  H.  Obreen 
Reproduced  by  permission  of  G.  Van  Oest  &  Company 

"The  Countess  Threw  Open  the  Shutters  and 
Disclosed  the  Wandering  Rocks  "    .         .         .215 

Sir  Edward  Burne- Jones 

Reproduced  by  permission  of  the  Berlin  Photograph  Co. 

"Mouldered  Verdure,  Slow  Golding  through 
the  Years."  "Arras  of  Wonder  Weft  on 
Flemish  Loom."  Hunting  Tapestry,  XIVth 
Century  ........     230 

From  A  History  of  Tapestry,  by  W.  G.  Thomson.     G.  P. 
Putnam's  Sons,  New  York;  Hodder  &  Stoughton,  London 

"The  Emperor  and  his  Brother  Ferdinand  Bear 
the  Litter  of  the  Virgin."  Tapestry — The 
Legend  of  Notre  Dame  de  Sablon — Central 
Panel 231 

From  La  Musee  Cinquantenaire,  Brussels 

"  Margaret  of  Parma,  the  Gracious  Regente  "     .     234 

From  Romance  of  the  Roman    Villas,  by  E.   Champney. 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 


Illustrations  xiii 

PACE 

"  Philip  the  Bad,  Miscalled  the  Good."  " Spider- 
Legged  and  Hawk-Beaked"      ....    235 

From  Album  Historique  de  la  Belgique,  by  H.  Van  der  Linden 

and  H.  Obreen 
Reproduced  by  permission  of  G.  Van  Oest  &  Company 

"Barred  Windows  of  her  Gaol  Frowned  upon 
Turbid  Waters"       ......     256 

From  a  photograph  by  The  Photochrom  Co. 

"A  Secret  Staircase  Led  to  Vaulted  Subter- 
ranean Chambers  "       .....        257 

From  Album  Historique  de  la  Belgique,  by  H.  Van  der  Linden 

and  H.  Obreen 
Reproduced  by  permission  of  G.  Van  Oest  &  Company 

"The  Emperor,  Margaret  of  Austria,  and  her 
Five    Homely   Nieces    Kneel  ng   before   the 
Virgin."      Tapestry — The    Legend    of  Notre 
DamedeSablon — Side  Panels  ....     280 
From  La  Musee  Cinquantenaire,  Brussels 

Margaret  of  Austria  .         .         .        .        .281 

From  a  contemporary  print 

"Philip  Knelt  in  Obeisance  before  his  Imperial 
Father."  Abdication  of  Charles  V.,  by  Le 
Gollait 282 

From  a  photograph  by  W.  A.  Mansell  &  Co. 

"  In  a  Cabaret  of  Seville  "  (Vinea)     .         .         .283 

Copyright,  1896,  by  Photographische  Gesellschaft,  Berlin 

Philip  II.  of  Spain 3°4 

From  a  contemporary  print 

"Interior  of  Antwerp  Cathedral."  "The 
Richest  and  Greatest  of  Northern  Europe"    305 

* 

By  Pieter  Neeffs 

Metropolitan  Museum  of  Art,  New  York 


xiv  Illustrations 


"Father  Xavier  Learns  from  Felicidad  the  Plot 
to  Behead  Egmont."    A  Startling  Confession       308 

By  Vibert 

Metropolitan  Museum  of  Art,  New  York 

"Relentless  Alva" 309 

From  Album  Historique  de  la  Bclgique,  by  H.  Van  der  Linden 

and  H.  Obreen 
Reproduced  by  permission  of  G.  Van  Oest  &  Company 

"At  Versailles  I  Beheld  his  Eminence  Vestured 
in  the  Alb  of  Mechlin  Lace  "  .         .         .         .     316 

By  B.  E.  Fichel 

Reproduced  by  permission  of  the  Metropolitan  Museum  of 
,  Art,  New  York 

Entry  of  Louis  XIV.  into  Dunkirk     .         .         .317 

From  A  History  of  Tapestry,  by  W.  G.  Thomson.     G.  P. 
Putnam's  Sons,  New  York;  Hodder  &  Stoughton,  London 

Bruges.  "The  Belfry  no  longer  Displays  its 
Golden  Dragon."  "But  the  River  still  Ripples 
through  its  Arched  Bridges"   ....     324 

From  a  drawing  by  Albert  Chanler 

"A  Retreat  from  the  World,  where  Memling 
Limned  St.  Ursulas."  Hospital  of  St.  Jean, 
Bruges 325 

From  a  photograph  by  Neurdein 

"With  Folded  Hands  and  Feet  upon  her  Favour- 
ite Dog  she  Lay."    Tomb   of  Mary  of  Bur- 
gundy, Bruges  ......     326 

From  a  photograph  by  Girardon 

"A  Fifteenth-Century  Madonna."  Hugo  Van 
der  Goers  Painting  the  Portrait  of  Mary  of 
Burgundy 327 

By  Koller 

Metropolitan  Museum  of  Art,  New  York 


Illustrations  xv 


The  Benediction  of  St.  Ursula  and  her  Virgins 
Militant  .......    328 

By  Memling 

Voyage  of  the  Eleven  Thousand  Virgins.  St. 
Ursula  Disembarks  at  Cologne       .         .         .     329 

By  Memling 

The  Ostend  Gate,  Bruges 330 

From  a  drawing  by  Albert  Chanler 

"From  its  Apertures,  Baldwin  Main  de  Fer 
Poured  Molten  Lead  upon  Assailants."  The 
"Broeltorens"or"Pont  des  Trous,"  Tournai    331 

From  Album  Historique  de  la  Belgique,  by  H.  Van  der  Linden 

and  H.  Obreen 
Reproduced  by  permission  of  G.  Van  Oest  &  Company 

Portrait  of  Van  Dyck,  by  himself      .         .         .     336 

Photographische  Gesellschaft,  Berlin 

"Soiree  Musicale"  with  his  Family  at  Dry 
Toren.     Teniers 337 

Gemaldegalerie,  Berlin 
Photographische  Gesellschaft,  Berlin 

The  Garden  of  Love.  Peter  Paul  Rubens    .  346 

(Prado,  Madrid) 

Reproduced  by  permission  of  the  Berlin  Photographic  Co. 

"Through  an  Opening  in  the  Forest  Loomed  the 
High-Pitched  Roofs  of  an  Old  Chateau." 
The  Castle  of  Steen  (Home  of  the  Artist), 
by  Rubens 347 

National  Gallery 

Photographische  Gesellschaft,  Berlin 

Salute  of  the  Cuirassiers.     Meissonier  .     352 

Reproduced  by  permission  of  the  Metropolitan  Museum  of 
Art,  New  York 


xvi  Illustrations 

PACK 

"The  Scarred  Historic  Walls  of  Hougomont"   .     353 

From  a  photograph  by  W.  A.  Mansell  &  Co. 

After  Waterloo.  "Sauve  Qui  Peut."  A.  C. 
Gow,  R.  A 360 

Reproduced  by  permission  of  the  Berlin  Photographic  Co. 

Farm  of  "La  Belle  Alliance,"  Waterloo  .        .    361 

From  an  old  lithograph 

"Upon  a  Lofty  Cliff  Perched  a  Turreted  Cha- 
teau"       380 

From  a  copyright  photograph  by  Underwood  &  Underwood, 
N.Y. 

"Great  Peace  is  over  Hougomont."  "Idle 
Barges  and  Laborious  Windmills  "  .         .         .381 

From  a  copyright  photograph  by  Underwood  &  Underwood, 

N.Y. 

Mere  Bavarde  and  her  "Patient,  Panting 
Doggies" 386 

From  a  copyright  photograph  by  Underwood  &  Underwood, 

N.Y. 

Hougomont.  "In  the  Orchard  which  once  Ran 
Blood  they  Retold  the  Ancient  Story"  .    .  387 

From  a  photograph  by  W.  A.  Mansell  &  Co. 

Antwerp  Spire.  "It  Rises  above  the  Huddled 
Houses,  a  Slender  Obelisk  of  Sculptured 
Lace" 402 

"Vast  Intricacy  and  Picturesqueness  of  Perspec- 
tive."   Antwerp  Cathedral — Interior    .         .    403 

"The  Famous  Belfry  of  Bruges  still  Towers 
above  the  Sleepy  Town"         ....     404 

From  a  photograph  by  Levy 


Illustrations  xvii 


"Oriental  Minaret,  and  Gothic  Tracery."  St. 
Sang,  Bruges  .......     405 

From  a  photograph  by  Neurdein 

"Flames  the  Buttressed  Belfry  Olden,  And  its 
Lace-Encrusted  Spire."  Antwerp  Cathedral 
and  Rubens  Monument    .....     406 

From  a  photograph  by  W.  A.  Mansell  &  Co. 

Cathedral  of  Ste.  Gudule,  Brussels  .         .         .     406 
portaildela  vlerge,  notre  dame  de  huy  .    407 

From  a  drawing  by  Albert  Chanler 

DlNANT  ........      408 

From  a  drawing  by  Albert  Chanler 

"Bleeding  and  Torn,  Ravished  with  Sword  and 
Flame."     Louvain    ......     409 

From  a  copyright  photograph  by  the  Topical  News  Agency 

The  Lace-like  Spire  of  Ste.  Gertrude  (Louvain)       410 

From  a  drawing  by  Albert  Chanler 

"The  Colossal  Buttressed  Tower  of  St.  Rom- 
bault."     M alines  Cathedral  .         .  41 1 

From  a  drawing  by  Albert  Chanler 

"Dignified,  though  Dilapidated."     The  Market 

Place,  Malines 412 

From  a  drawing  by  Albert  Chanler 

Museum  Square,  Ypres,  before  the  Bombard- 
ment        ........     4*3 

From  a  copyright  photograph  by  the  Topical  News  Agency 

Museum  Square,  Ypres,  after  the  Bombardment  .     414 

From  a  copyright  photograph  by  the  Topical  News  Agency 


xviii  Illustrations 

MM 

The  Cloth-Hall  Tower,  Ypres  .        .        .  415 

From  a  drawing  by  Albert  Cbanler 
The  Unscathed  Statue  of  Van  den  Peereboom, 

BESIDE   THE  SHATTERED  CHURCH  OF   St.   MARTIN, 

Ypres 416 

From  a  copyright  photograph  by  the  Topical  News  Agency 

"Its  Stately  Campanile  Flaunts  the  Golden 
Dragon."     The  Belfry,  Ghent         .         .         .     417 

From  a  photograph  by  Levy 

"With  Clustered,  Corbelled  Turrets."  The 
Belfry  of  Lierre    ......     418 

From  a  drawing  by  Albert  Chanler 

"Irresistibly  Picturesque."  The  Belfry  of 
Alost 419 

From  a  drawing  by  Albert  Chanler 

The  Belfry  of  Bruges.  "Thrice  Consumed  and 
Thrice  Rebuilded,  still  it  Watches  o'er  the 
Town" 420 

From  a  drawing  by  Albert  Chanler 

"And  the  World  Threw  off  the  Darkness  like 
the  Weeds  of  Widowhood."    Bruges      .         .    421 

From  a  photograph  by  Neurdein 

"The  Great  Cloth-Hall  (Ypres),  Unsurpassed  by 
any  Secular  Building  of  the  Gothic  Era,  now 
Gutted  and  Demolished"  ....    422 

From  a  photograph  by  W.  A.  Mansell  &  Co. 

"Finest  of  the  Town  Halls  of  Belgium."    The 
Hotel  de  Ville  and  Market  Place,  B  russels     .     423 
From  a  copyright  photograph  by  Underwood  &  Underwood, 
N.Y. 


Illustrations  xix 


PACB 


•Age  has  Softened  its  Extravagances."    HCtel 
de  Ville,  Ghent       ......     424 

From  a  photograph  by  W.  A.  Mansell  &  Co. 

The  H6tel  de  Ville  of  Oudenaarde.    "One  of 
the  most  Ornate  Examples  of  Flemish  Gothic  ' '      425 
From  a  photograph  by  W.  A.  Mansell  &  Co. 

"Forty    Statued    Niches    and    Lofty    Lancet 
Windows."    Hotel  de  Ville,  Bruges      .         .     426 
From  a  photograph  by  W.  A.  Mansell  &  Co. 

Residence  and  Printing-House  of  a  Wealthy 
Burgher.  Court  of  the  Museum  Plantin, 
Antwerp  .......    427 

From  a  photograph  by  The  Photochrom  Co. 

Guilds  of  the  Boatmen  (Ghent)  .         .         .     428 

From  a  drawing  by  Albert  Chanler 

"Refinement  Gave  Place  to  the  Massive,  the 
Ponderous  and   Dull."    Porte  de  L'Escaut, 

Antwerp 429 

From  a  drawing  by  Albert  Chanler 

"Grande  Place,"  Brussels.  "For  Picturesque- 
ness  and  Fantasy  Unsurpassed  by  any  Square 
in  Europe" 430 

From  a  copyright  photograph  by  the  late  Sir  Benjamin 
Stone,  reproduced  by  courtesy  of  The  Studio 

"Christ  is  Fallen" 43* 

Reproduced  by  permission  of  The  Daily  Mirror,  London 


Romance  of  Old  Belgium 


PART  I 

LOOT 


TN  a  ruined  Belgian  abbey  (the  name  has  been  de- 
*  leted),  three  soldiers  of  the  Allies  were  aimlessly 
exploring  the  debris-encumbered  chambers. 

"  Comme  je  vous  ai  dit, "  insisted  the  French  sergeant, 
flicking  the  dust  from  his  uniform,  "il  n'y  a  rien,  absolu- 
ment  rien." 

"What  did  you  expect  to  find,"  inquired  the  Lon- 
doner, "in  a  beggarly  old  monkery,  crown  jewels  of  the 
Kingdom?" 

The  Belgian  looked  about  him  hungrily.  "  They  say 
that  the  old  monks  were  great  eaters  and  good  drinkers 
too.  If  we  could  but  find  our  way  to  the  cellars,  for 
example." 

Unable  to  do  this,  as  the  crypt  of  the  monastery  was 
an  impenetrable  labyrinth  of  fallen  beams,  they  con- 
tinued their  stroll  above.  Here  a  row  of  cells  opened 
upon  the  cloister,  where  a  shattered  pear-tree  thrust 

i 


2  Old  Belgium 

its  feeble  branches  through  heaps  of  brick  and  mor- 
tar, with  the  despairing  gesture  of  a  man  buried 
alive. 

"What  a  beastly  hole  for  a  man  to  live  in!"  said  the 
Englishman. 

"N'est-ce  pas,  mon  ami!  A  tomb,  a  kennel,  fit  only 
for  a  dead  soul  or  a  live  dog!" 

"What  of  the  world  could  one  know  imprisoned  in 
this  cell?" 

"Rien,  absolument  rien." 

"Look  you,  the  man's  pallet  stood  here,"  continued 
the  Englishman,  "his  crucifix  above  the  pallet  and 
here " 

"Here,  Messieurs,"  the  Belgian  was  scanning  the 
wall  closely,  "here  are  stains,  spatters  rather." 

"What,  blood?"  asked  the  Frenchman  with  awaken- 
ing interest. 

"  Nothing  so  ordinary.  Ink  Messieurs,  for  here  was 
once  a  narrow  lectern  close  to  the  door  where  he  had 
light  from  the  cloister  garden." 

"How  furiously  he  must  have  written  to  have  so 
spotted  the  wall, "  exclaimed  the  Englishman.  "  What 
was  he  composing,  think  you?" 

"Nothing  of  the  least  consequence,"  reiterated  the 
Frenchman.  "You  see  that  I  was  right.  We  find 
nothing  here, — absolument  rien. " 

As  he  spoke  the  air  was  rent  with  a  heavy  detonation. 
The  three  soldiers  ran  back  into  the  cloister  as,  with  a 


"  In  a  Ruined  Belgian  Abbey  " 

From  a  copyright  photograph  by  the  Topical  NY 


They  left  the  papers  there  to  scud  about,  the  sport  of  every  breeze  " 

From  a  copyright  photograph  by  the  Topical  News  Agency 


Loot  3 

deafening  crash,  the  wall  toppled  inward  burying  the 
cell  under  a  mass  of  shattered  masonry. 

"My  word!"  drawled  the  Londoner  adjusting  his 
glasses,  "  that  was  a  bit  nasty. " 

" A  la  guerre  comme  a  la  guerre, "  said  the  Frenchman , 
"  'tis  all  very  well  to  expose  one's  self  when  on  duty,  but 
for  one's  amusement,  ma  foil  the  game  is  not  worth  the 
candle.  For  my  part  I  know  not  why  we  chose  this 
sacre  abbey  for  our  promenade." 

But  the  Belgian  had  leapt  into  the  cell,  where, 
through  a  cloud  of  dust,  he  discovered  a  closet  concealed 
for  centuries  now  burst  open  by  the  explosion  to  rifling 
hands.  In  this  recess  was  an  iron-bound  box  of  solid 
oak  which  he  bore  to  the  light. 

"It  is  mine,"  he  gasped.  "  I  alone  saw  it.  You  both 
said  there  was  nothing  here,  nothing." 

"Share  alike,  mon  ami,1'  cried  the  Frenchman,  "if 
there  is  anything  worth  sharing." 

"Take  it  to  headquarters.  Are  we  thieves?"  com- 
manded the  Englishman. 

But  the  hasp  of  the  casket  had  yielded  under  the 
blows  of  a  stone  and  the  Belgian  strewed  its  contents 
upon  the  ground.  To  the  disgust  of  all,  the  loot  proved 
to  be  only  worthless  papers.  Manuscripts  yellow  with 
age,  tied  in  packets  or  bundled  indiscriminately  together 
and  thrust  into  the  niche  after  the  writer's  death.  All 
were  written  in  a  language  which  none  of  the  three  could 
quite  understand. 


4  Old  Belgium 

"It  is  French,"  declared  the  Englishman. 

"No,  Flemish,"  contradicted  the  Frenchman;  while 
the  Belgian  insisted  that  it  was  English. 

The  Londoner  studied  it  more  carefully.  "English, 
yes,  as  a  Belgian  might  write  it,  a  queer  lingo  such  as 
our  ancestors  used  before  they  learned  to  spell,  and 
which  no  fellow  nowadays  can  make  out.  No  loss  to 
the  world,  I  fancy." 

They  left  the  papers  to  scud  about,  the  sport  of  every 
breeze.  Sometime  later  the  ruins  were  burned  over, 
but  a  heavy  rain  extinguished  the  fire.  One  day  a 
soldier  with  more  of  appreciation  of  their  value  gathered 
the  waifs  together  and  sent  them  to  England.  So  a 
portion  of  this  disregarded  loot  came  at. last  into  the 
hands  of  the  present  writers. 

Legends  and  romances  they  proved  to  be  of  the  early 
history  of  Belgium,  from  half -mythical  ages  before  the 
Christian  era,  down  through  the  centuries,  to  mediaeval 
days  of  troubadour  and  tourney.  Scattered  among  the 
tales  were  verses,  rondeaus,  villanelles,  serenas,  ballads 
of  wild  adventure,  legends  of  saints,  and  letters,  written 
by  fair  hands  to  the  monkish  scribe,  breathing  a  perfume 
more  fragrant  than  that  of  the  cloister. 

Strange  how  these  newly  found  tales  revived  tradi- 
tions which  we  had  heard  from  the  lips  of  peasants! 
How  they  restored  faded  colours  of  old  tapestries,  and 
galvanized  into  life  dead  portraits,  whose  originals — 
"Nous  aimons  un  peu  sans  les  avoir  connue," — illu- 


Loot  5 

mining  with  new  light  dark  passages,  alike  of  crumbling 
castles  and  of  histories  more  remarkable  for  veracity 
than  charm. 

Who  was  the  Belgian  chronicler  writing  thus  in 
English  diction  of  the  fourteenth  century?  Scarcely 
Geoffrey  Chaucer,  though  he  may  have  paused  here  on 
his  way  to  or  from  Italy;  was  it  indeed  John  Froissart, 
who,  after  a  life  spent  in  the  courts  of  England  and  of 
Europe,  retired  in  his  declining  years  to  this  abbey. 
Or  was  it  only  some  humbler  imitator? 

Puzzle  ye  my  puzzle,  kind  gentles,  the  magpie  gath- 
erer of  these  pilfered  legends  has  filled  in  the  lacuna; 
with  little  art  but  with  much  sympathy. 

And  ye  who  deme  not  sooth  this  monk  his  tales, 
Nor  yet  allow  them  well  invenciouned, 
Think  how  with  Godde  not  our  desert  avails 
But  that  we  rigthly  have  intenciouned. 
Then  from  each  tale  winnowe  the  chaffe  withal, 
Keeping  the  graine,  the  which  the  wind  lets  fall. 
And  so  the  goode  Lorde  us  sinners  shrive 
That  in  his  holynesse  we  al  may  live. 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  SHE-WOLF'S  LITTER:  A  LEGEND  OF  THE  NERVII 

I 
"VENI" 

A  Wolf  ther  was  wombed  'neath  a  southern  skye, 

Wher  seven  grete  hilles  loom  golden  in  the  sunne, 

With  dome  and  towre  and  columned  temple  highe 

And  endlesse  aqueducte  in  unisonne. 

Lorde  of  a  cruelle  broode  of  war-like  menne, 

Than  whom  non  lived  more  feresome  or  more  colde, 

Craftye  and  wise  in  arte  of  human  ken, 

Whelpes  of  the  wolf,  inexorable,  bolde 

To  spoil  and  ravin  al  the  circling  wolde. 

A  Lamb  ther  was,  the  fable  olde  doth  save, 
Long  syne,  who,  drinking  at  a  woodlande  rill, 
Troubled  the  waters,  crystal,  cool  and  stille, 
Thus  sayd  the  Wolf,  what  time  he  fared  thet  waye : 
"For  that  ye  dare  my  wateres,  Lambkin,  roile, 
Thee  shal  I  now  incontinently  slaye!" 

The  Wolf  was  Caesar,  Gaul  the  tender  preye, 
Whose  herte  he  rente  with  fanges  athirst  for  gore, 
Insatiate  to  torture  and  to  flaye, 
Still  creepinge  up  thurgh  treacherye  to  poure, 
Til  loote  and  carnage  he  could  gorge  no  more; 

6 


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The  She-Wolfs  Litter  7 

Whan  on  the  Ides,  upon  the  capitol, 
E'en  Rome  repudiated  Caesar's  sway 
And  Wolflings  slew  the  Wolf  that  preyed  on  Gaul! 

A  A  AUGIS,  the  Druid  magician,  of  whose  birth  tradi- 
•  v  *  tion  spake  not  and  who  was  destined  by  Mana- 
nan  to  outlive  the  universe,  stood  by  the  sand-dunes 
peering  expectantly  to  sea. 

Tall,  clothed  in  white,  his  arms  bare  save  for  a  golden 
armlet,  his  elf-locks,  chaplet-bound,  mingling  with  a 
beard  which  swept  like  a  foaming  torrent  to  his  belt,  his 
eyes  gleaming  like  live  coals — had  he  possessed  no 
supernatural  prestige  he  would  still  have  commanded 
respect. 

There  had  been  a  terrific  tempest;  a  towering  tidal 
wave  had  lapped  far  inland,  sucking  back,  in  its  greedy 
ebb,  flocks,  men,  hamlets;  and  the  shore  was  littered  for 
miles  with  jetsam. 

The  survivors,  too  terrified  to  collect  the  wreckage, 
huddled  about  the  Druid  while  he  mumbled  a  rune  of 
enchantment. 

"  Beltane  and  his  demons  have  not  been  propitiated ; " 
he  shrilled,  "they  hunger  for  human  sacrifice.  Ye  must 
yield  them  one  or  they  will  devour  all. " 

"Where,  O  Maugis,"  demanded  the  tribesmen, 
"shall  we  offer  sacrifice?" 

"Upon  the  great  dolmen  in  the  Druid  Wood,  at  sun- 
rise, on  the  morn  of  the  summer  solstice,  must  the  vic- 
tim be  immolated;  that  the  hunger  of  the  gods  be 


8  Old  Belgium 

appeased,  lest  the  Voyaging  Rocks  bring  the  devils  of 
doom." 

Tracing  a  circle  in  the  sand  with  his  wand,  Maugis 
chanted  a  wild  war-song:  "Thy  tables  we  will  lay, 
Beltane.  The  victims  will  be  slain.  Druids,  whet  your 
rusted  knives  to  cleave  the  tender  flesh.  Red  blood 
shall  assuage  thy  thirst.  The  heart  of  our  fair  princess 
shall  smoulder  on  thine  altar!" 

"Never,"  cried  the  chief,  Bodnognatus,  "shalt  thou 
sacrifice  my  daughter.  Thou  thyself  shalt  die  in  her 
stead ! ' '  Brandishing  his  flint  axe  above  the  implacable 
Maugis  he  was  diverted  by  a  despairing  wail  from  the 
tribesmen. 

"Behold  the  Rocks  of  Doom!" 

Silhouetted  against  the  waning  moon,  phantom  forms 
loomed  through  the  dusk,  swayed,  toppled,  sank,  and 
rose  again — then  sailed  slowly  by,  like  a  fleet  of  ghostly 
galleons. 

"Alas!"  moaned  Maugis,  "no  sacrifice  can  now  avail. 
War,  more  deadly  than  hath  e'er  ravaged  Gaul,  will 
surely  come.    War,  war!" 

This  prophecy  was  speedily  fulfilled.  Caesar  fell 
upon  tribe  after  tribe  in  relentless  massacre. 

"Horum  omnium  fortissimi  sunt  Belgae,"  he  said, 
and,  in  order,  to  "pacify"  these  people,  looting,  slaying, 
and  enslaving,  he  laid  waste  the  land. 

Rumours  of  his  invincible  march  through  Allemania 
foreran  his  legio  ns ;  how  that,  in  a  day,  he  had  flung  a 


The  She-Wolfs  Litter  9 

magic  bridge  across  the  Rhine,  whereon  he  crossed  with 
all  his  centuries ;  and  how,  in  one  conflict  he  had  put  to 
the  sword  a  half  million  of  Germans. r 

And  now  the  Roman,  whose  very  name  was  terror, 
was  at  their  defenceless  gates.  What  hope  to  make  a 
stand  when  Ariovistus  had  fled?  The  Sylvanectes, 
having  sought  shelter  in  their  trackless  forests,  the 
Wolf  King  as  they  named  him,  flaired  them  out  and, 
severing  their  hands,  sent  them  mutilated  through 
Belgica ' '  to  inspire  the  denizens  with  fear. ' '  The  peace- 
ful Remi  laid  down  their  arms  and  were  sold  as  slaves. 

The  Nervii,  of  all  the  Belgae  most  indomitable,  would 
neither  flee  nor  surrender,  but  laboured  desperately  to 
prepare  the  Romans  fitting  welcome. 

The  appearance  of  the  Voyaging  Rocks  at  the  time  of 
their  council  had  decided  them  to  submit  to  the  demand 
of  Maugis.  Their  chieftain  was  struck  down  while 
defending  his  daughter  and  the  girl  dragged  to  the  sacri- 
ficial table. 

But  the  great  Wolf  King  was  near  at  hand.  That 
June  night  as  the  moon  was  dipping  behind  the  purple 
hills,  heading  a  scouting  party,  he  rode  far  into  the 
Nervian  forest. 

Coming  upon  a  clearing  he  sedulously  examined  the 
spot.  A  great  circle  of  greensward  recently  trampled 
by  many  feet  and  in  the  centre  a  huge  dolmen,  with 

1  This  victory  was  gained  by  such  treachery  that  Cato  declared  Caesar 
ought  to  be  delivered  into  the  hands  of  the  barbarians. 


io  Old  Belgium 

menhirs  standing  sentinel-like  around  it.  He  ad- 
vanced within  this  ring  of  monoliths  and  examined  the 
dolmen,  a  flat  stone  resting  upon  several  low  uprights, 
forming  a  table.  Brushwood  was  piled  about  it  and 
the  table  itself  was  garlanded  with  vervain.  The  forest 
opened  toward  the  east,  and  he  could  see  twinkling 
lights  approaching  in  long  lines.  The  conclusion  was 
evident :  the  spot  was  a  temple  and  a  procession  was 
winding  hitherward  for  some  religious  ceremonial. 

Instantly  he  ordered  the  soldiers  to  withdraw  to 
cover  and,  secreting  himself  in  the  coppice,  awaited  the 
coming  of  the  worshippers. 

As  they  came  a  weird  chant  rose  and  swelled  into  a 
battle  march  timed  to  the  beating  of  muffled  drums, 
and  it  increased  in  intensity  to  a  blast  of  shawms  and 
oxhorn  trumpets. 

Like  the  muttering  of  distant  thunder  hoarsely  they 
chanted  the 

Druide  Hymn 

Haste  ye  Druides  to  the  clearinge, 
Wher  the  crescente  sickle  golde 
Of  the  moone  through  cloudlets  peering, 
Floods  with  radiance  all  the  wolde. 

In  the  mystic  shades  suspiciouse , 
By  the  dolmen  dim  and  white, 
Let  us  waite  the  houre  auspicious 
When  the  Dawne  displayes  her  lyghte. 


The  She-Wolfs  Litter  u 

Then  with  utterance  of  thunder 
Let  our  battle  cryes  resounde; 
Till  Rome's  bonds  we  wreste  asunder! 
Let  the  tocsin  bravely  sounde ! 

Through  the  londe  like  comets  flashynge 
Grant  victoriouse  we  goe ! 
Gaul's  grete  shields  of  warre  are  clashynge, 
Save  our  hearthes  from  tyrant  foe. 

As  the  company  filed  into  the  sacred  place  and, 
quenching  all  of  their  torches  but  one,  squatted  upon  the 
ground  in  ever  widening  circles,  the  march  changed  into 
a  wailing,  funereal  prayer: 

Mananan,  Godde  of  our  natioune, 
Irminsul  and  bolde  Beltane 
See  thy  people's  desolaucion, 
Send  thy  succoure  not  in  vaine ! 

Gradually  the  sky  lightened  to  dawn,  and  Caesar 
could  discern,  through  the  greening  dusk,  nude,  spectral 
figures,  approaching  the  dolmen,  led  by  an  aged  Druid, 
who  supported  himself  upon  a  tall  staff,  while  in  his 
right  hand  he  held  the  flickering  torch.  He  took  his 
place  at  the  head  of  the  altar,  while  the  uncouth,  naked 
savages  dragged  forward  a  shrieking  girl,  whom  they 
bound  upon  the  sacrificial  stone. 

Inured  as  Caesar  was  to  scenes  of  horror,  he  felt  a  cold 
sweat  suffuse  his  person;  and  was  about  to  give  the 
signal  for  the  onslaught  of  his  men,  when  the  barbarians 


ia  Old  Belgium 

resumed  their  sitting  posture,  while  the  Druid  stood 
gazing  toward  the  east. 

The  moon  had  set,  the  chant  died  into  an  awed  hush, 
not  a  leaf  stirred  or  bird  twittered.  Only  the  low  moan- 
ing of  the  victim  shivered  through  the  air,  until  as  the 
sky  flushed  to  sunrise,  the  chant  swelled  again  : 

Shall  the  preying  Roman  eagle 
Our  old  altars  e'er  defame? 
Shall  our  Druid  forests  regal 
Fall  before  the  axe  and  flame? 

Nay !  the  sun  hath  passed  the  portal 
And  the  victim  waits  the  pyre. 
Ply  the  torche,  thou  priest  immortelle, 
Rome  shall  know  our  vengance  dire ! 

The  fiery  rim  of  the  sun  appeared  above  the  horizon, 
and  its  first  white  ray  touched  one  of  the  giant  menhirs, 
casting  its  shadow  upon  the  foot  of  the  altar.  As  the 
sun  rose  higher,  its  light  flooded  the  space  between  the 
eastern  menhirs  and  the  sacrificial  stone.  Gradually 
it  spread  along  its  surface,  from  the  feet  of  the  recum- 
bent victim  upward  until  it  reached  her  throat. 

Then,  as  the  worshippers  shrieked  the  last  stanza 
of  their  terrible  invocation,  the  Druid  plunged  his  torch 
again  and  again  into  the  brushwood  and  flames  shot 
up  on  every  side  of  the  altar ! 

The  demonic  creatures  sprang  to  their  feet  and  danced 
about  the  pyre  with  hideous  yells;  when,  with  a  battle- 
cry  which  resounded  through  the  leafy  aisles,  the  Roman 


The  She- Wolfs  Litter  13 

squadron  charged  into  the  circle,  slashing  right  and  left. 
Plucking  the  burning  faggots  from  the  sacrificial  stone, 
they  flung  them  among  the  panic-stricken  savages  and 
drove  them  helter-skelter  into  the  forest ;  while  Caesar, 
cutting  the  cords  which  bound  her,  released  the  maiden, 
who  disappeared  in  the  confusion. 

As  Caesar  thrust  at  the  Druid,  his  sword,  to  his 
astonishment,  passed  through  unresisting  air. 

"Fool,"  cried  the  wizard,  "I  am  Maugis  whom  none 
can  slay:  but  thou  blind  treader-down  of  innocent 
peoples,  thou,  that  desecrateth  the  temples  of  their 
religion,  and  layeth  waste  their  lands,  their  homes  and 
the  sepulchres  of  the  ancient  dead — thou  shalt  die, 
wolf  that  thou  art,  by  the  fangs  of  thine  own  brood, 
littered  in  the  lair  of  death!" 

Caesar  listened  with  mingled  curiosity  and  amusement, 
but  before  these  feelings  could  give  place  to  anger 
Maugis  had  changed  to  a  smouldering  tree-trunk,  and 
his  long  beard  dissolved  into  a  welter  of  wavering 
smoke. 


11 


VIDI 

A  mayde  ther  dwelt  in  Northland  fer  contree, 
And  her  was  wondrous  swete  and  passing  fayre, 
A  chief tayne's  doughter  she,  of  Nervii, 
A  peoplet  wild  as  wolves  within  a  laire, 


14  Old  Belgium 

Fiercest  of  al  the  lustye  tenantrye 
That  habit  watere,  earth  or  reaulmes  of  air, 
But  meke  as  any  yereling  doe  might  be, 
Though  Lupa  she  yclept,  and  debonaire, 
Lone,  elfish  wilding  of  the  marshy  wode, 
Frail,  gentil  lambkin  of  a  wolfish  broode. 

Whilom  it  passed  that  Lupa  sought  the  streme, 
Wher,  most  sequestered  in  the  pleached  shade, 
To  cool  her  from  the  sunne's  unflinching  beme, 
Amongst  green  osieres  in  a  tranquile  glade; 
Whenne  sudden,  thurgh  the  foreste's  stillye  hush, 
A  thud  of  hammering  hoofes  and  clank  of  maile ! 
And,  flocked  with  foam  and  dust,  with  myghtie  rush, 
A  Roman  gallops  up  the  foreste  traile, 
Then  pauses  at  the  streamlet's  mossye  brinke 
To  give  his  steede  the  watere  clere  to  drinke. 

Within  the  reedes  shy  Lupa  strives  to  hide 

In  vayne  her  beautie  white  beneath  the  tide. 

The  knyghte  hath  seen  and,  seeing,  straight  doth  ride 

In  hot  pursuite ;  but  Lupa  swift  doth  glide 

Down  thurgh  the  rushes  to  an  elfin  grot, 

Wher,  save  wee  sprites,  ther  peer  intruderes  not. 

"  Vidi, "  said  Caesar  to  himself.  "  'Tis  a  wraith,  some 
naiad  of  the  pool  or  oread  of  the  forest.  Was  not 
Hylas  snared  by  such  in  Sicily  while  Jason  waited  to 
hoist  sail  with  the  Argonauts?" 

This  was  moreover  the  Druid  wood  in  which  he  had 
interrupted  the  revolting  sacrifice  of  a  young  girl;  and 
though  this  religion  seemed  naught  to  him,  still — "might 
there  not  be  somewhat  of  truth  therein,"  he  queried, 


The  She-Wolfs  Litter  15 

"since  I  have  seen  that  their  hollow  trees  imprison 
beings  like  to  the  dryads?" 

The  water-sprite,  whom  he  deemed  that  he  had  seen, 
might  be  mere  glamouraye,  or  a  lamia  such  as  suck 
men's  blood,  but  none  the  less  he  felt  himself  bewitched. 
Whenever  he  rode  in  this  part  of  the  forest  he  heard,  at 
some  point  of  his  course,  the  trilling  of  a  strange  bird. 
Following  the  song,  he  often  discerned  a  rustling  in  the 
bushes ;  and  when  he  sought  warily,  or  with  loud  halloo, 
he  found  neither  wild  creature  nor  trace  of  human 
being.  Yet  always,  as  he  abandoned  the  search,  there 
fluttered  to  his  feet  a  thrush  transfixed  by  an  arrow, 
pointed  with  rock  crystal  and  winged  with  scarlet 
feathers.  These  arrows  he  would  thrust  through  his 
mantle,  resuming  his  course,  riding,  as  was  his  wont 
when  pondering  matters  of  great  moment,  with  his  hands 
locked  behind  his  head,  his  steed  at  full  gallop,  well 
knowing  that  it  would  find  the  way  to  camp. 

So  certain  was  he  that  the  mysterious  being  had  no 
malevolent  intent,  that  one  day  he  sought  the  stream 
where  she  had  disappeared,  and  fancied  that  he  saw 
beneath  its  ripples  the  flash  of  a  white  arm.  He  was 
an  expert  swimmer,  having  once  crossed  a  river  swim- 
ming with  one  hand,  holding  high  above  the  water  some 
manuscripts  which  he  wished  to  preserve.  He  did  not 
hesitate  now,  but  divesting  himself  of  his  armour, 
he  dived  beneath  the  surface.  Here  he  made  an 
important  discovery. 


16  Old  Belgium 

A  sub-aqueous  passage  led  upward  to  a  cavern  above 
the  surface  of  the  water,  lighted  from  above  and  glisten- 
ing with  stalactites.  It  was  quite  deserted,  but  there 
was  evidence  of  its  past  occupancy,  for  bits  of  crystal 
had  been  broken  off  and  chipped  into  arrowheads,  which 
were  stored  in  a  crevice.  He  hesitated  an  instant,  then 
tore  from  the  breast  of  his  tunic  the  brooch  which  fast- 
ened it,  two  Roman  eagles  with  inter-hooked  beaks, 
placed  it  in  the  crevice,  and  so  stole  from  the  grotto. 

Again  he  sought  the  spot  and,  happy,  or  unhappy 
chance,  found  sleeping  on  the  floor  of  the  cave,  her  head 
pillowed  upon  her  arm,  the  naiad  of  the  stream;  a 
lovely  young  girl,  of  fifteen,  he  judged,  perfect  in  her 
childlike  beauty,  and  nude  save  for  the  interlocked 
eagles  suspended  by  a  thong  about  her  neck,  rising 
and  falling  with  her  soft  breathing. 

She  opened  her  deep  violet  eyes  as  he  bent  over  her 
and  a  smile  of  glad  surprise  illumined  her  face,  as  she 
stroked  his  own  softly.  "Wolf  King, "  she  said  in  the 
Gallic-Roman  patois,  "thou  didst  save  me  from  the 
knife  of  Maugis,  thou  wilt  not  betray  my  hiding-place. " 

"  Nay, "  he  protested,  "and  I  will  terribly  punish  those 
impious  ones  who  would  have  ta'en  thy  life.  Who  art 
thou  and  how  art  thou  called?" 

"I  have  no  longer  people  or  name.  Wilt  thou  not 
give  me  thine,  O  Wolf  King?  " 

"So  be  it,  henceforth  art  thou  my  Alba  Lupa.  But 
dwell  there  other  nymphs  within  these  rivers,  such 


The  She- Wolf  s  Litter  17 

as  green-tressed  Malis  and  Nychea  of  the  caressing 
hands?" 

"Yea,  lord,  water  maidens  have  we;  but  who  be 
those  of  whom  thou  speakest?" 

11  Listen, "  he  said,  "  to  an  old  tale  by  one  of  our  poets, 
The  Fate  of  Hylas: 

"  Where  the  lush  sward  is  strewn  with  celandine, 
Iris  and  maiden  hair  and  no  birds  sing, 
Fair  Hylas  found  a  cool  and  crystal  spring, 
Within  whose  depths  the  sleepless  nymphs  unseen, 
Eunica  fair  and  Malis  apple-green 
And  frail  Nychea,  vine  to  twine  and  cling, 
Were  dancing  in  a  blithe  and  festive  ring. 
And  each  was  beauteous  as  a  fairy  queen. 

"He  stoops  to  fill  his  urn,  the  vision  spies, 
A  heavenly  glamour  every  sense  enthralls, 
Then  down  he  sinks,  as  from  the  summer  skies 
A  flaming  star  in  silent  beauty  falls. 
While,  'Hylas!  Hylas!'  his  sad  comrade  cries, 
And  'Hylas!  Hylas,'  empty  echo  calls."1 

As  Caesar  returned,  he  found  not  his  armour  upon  the 
bank  nor  his  horse  waiting  beside  it;  though  when  he 
whistled,  the  faithful  creature  came,  trembling  with 
fright,  its  shoulder  grazed  by  an  arrow  that  all  but  came 
too  near. 

Even  this  untoward  incident  deterred  not  Caesar 
from  his  purpose.  Posting  guards  at  a  little  distance 
he  again  sought  the  cave,  but  the  water-wraith  had  dis- 

1  Translated  from  Theocritus. 


18  Old  Belgium 

appeared.  Was  she  offended  that  he  had  invaded  her 
sanctuary,  or  had  she  been  discovered  and  borne  away 
by  her  savage  people? 

Never,  though  he  visited  the  cave  again  and  again 
did  he  find  her  there.  No  more  birds  fell  at  his  feet, 
no  sight  or  message  of  any  kind  was  vouchsafed  him, 
maiden  or  sprite,  she  had  vanished  utterly. 

in 

"via" 

The  Nervii,  a  tribe  of  warlike  mode, 

Of  al  the  Gauls  most  boisterous  and  brute, 

Uncouth  of  mien,  weird  offspringe  of  the  wode, 

Lurking  alon  unpacified  though  mute, 

Byded  within  walled  hedges  wide  and  heighe 

The  grete  Wolf's  coming;  whil  in  hamlets  nigh 

He  hibernated  neth  a  milder  skye, 

Builded  him  bridges  o'er  swift-rushynge  tides, 

Leveyed  his  legionnes,  cohorts,  centuries 

Of  horse  and  fote  and  burdened  bestes,  besides 

Huge  enginerye  of  siege  and  vaste  supplyes. 

With  Springe's  bryghte,  burgeoned  bloome  like  blight  he 

came 
And  put  these  trembling  flockes  to  utter  flyghte, 
Harried  them  thurgh  the  stremes  with  sword  and  flame, 
Consumed  the  foreste  dense  and  limitlesse, 
Whither  they  swermed  for  refuge  in  the  nyghte. 

Mercye!  they  crave;  but,  stern  and  pitylesse, 
The  Wolf  stille  thirstes  for  more  of  blode  and  pain, 


The  She-Wolfs  Litter  19 

Thousands  he  sleys !    Til  sated  with  distresse 
And  glut  of  carnage,  those  who  yet  remaine, 
Mere  handfull  of  that  nationne  numberlesse, 
He  "spares — to  bow  beneath  the  yoke  of  Rome," 
And  die  as  slaves,  fer  from  their  foreste  home. 

But  when  the  prowlinge  Wolf  espied  that  nyghte, 
Within  the  prison-penne,  wher  huddled  close 
Like  lambes  within  a  folde  in  sore  affryghte, 
The  tremblinge  loot  his  lustful  legionnes  chose, 
A  may  den  wan  and  frayle  with  want  of  fode, 
He  halted  horse  and  to  her  hied  straightway, 
For  lo!  'twas  Lupa,  elfling  of  the  wode. 
With  herte  transformed  to  pity  he  did  saye: 
"  Mayden,  if  less  than  spirite  thou  canst  be, 
Grieved  wer  I,  if  in  thy  hapless  plyghte 
I  sped  me  not  to  aid  and  solas  thee. 
My  bride  thou'lt  be  upon  this  verye  nighte. 
Centurioun,  this  slave  I  now  sette  free!  " 

Then  Lupa  answered:  "Wolf-Kinge,  strong  and  brave, 

Thee  wil  I  folio  we  or  to  joye  or  peyn, 

Thy  lande  shal  be  my  lande  in  sunne  or  rain, 

Thy  gods  shal  be  my  gods  unto  the  grave!" 

And  Lupa,  lambkin  of  the  Nervian  vale, 
Leaped  laughing  in  her  ruthless  captor's  arms 
There  to  forget  al  fear  and  wilde  alarums; 
But,  an  ye  herkneth  to  my  coming  tale, 
I  wil  ye  tel  how,  lamb-like  while  ye  love, 
A  woman  spurned,  a  verye  wolf  may  prove. 

MORALE 

The  morale  this:  Lambkin  be  not  too  bolde; 
But  byde  with  mother-ewe,  secure  at  home. 


20  Old  Belgium 

Better  to  be  a  shepe,  alive  in  folde, 

Than  mutton  inne  the  maw  of  hungrye  Rome 

Or  other  nightlye  prowler  of  the  wolde. 

Fighting  behind  hedges  wattled  with  intertwisted 
boughs,  moated  by  streams  and  marshes  which  sucked 
the  armour-laden  Romans  down  to  death,  only  inch 
by  inch  had  the  Nervii  retreated. 

Bestial  howls  rilled  the  night,  flaming  eyes  and  fiend- 
ish faces  peered  from  the  forest  on  every  hand.  Now  the 
savages  were  in  the  front,  then  in  the  rear;  the  Romans 
suddenly  found  themselves  encompassed  by  a  horde 
of  barbarians,  hacking,  leaping,  tumbling  over  bodies 
of  foe  and  friend.  The  women,  putting  into  practice 
the  lessons  of  extermination  which  they  had  learned 
from  the  Romans,  gleaned  the  battle-field  by  braining 
the  wounded  with  their  stone  axes. 

Routing  his  cavalry  the  Nervii  surrounded  the 
seventh  and  twelfth  legions,  slaying  the  centurions. 

Caesar  leapt  from  his  horse  exclaiming,  "I  fight  on 
foot  with  my  men.  The  battle  won,  my  steed  may 
serve  me  in  the  chase!"  Seizing  a  standard,  he 
rallied  his  disheartened  soldiery  till  they  descended  on 
the  Nervii,  driving  them  like  chaff  before  the  wind. 

Traversing  the  morasses  upon  their  prostrate  foes 
the  Romans  pursued  the  frighted  fugitives  with  fire 
and  sword,  until  from  a  tribe  of  three  score  thousand 
warriors  five  hundred  alone  survived. 

At  last  the  Belgae  were  broken.    Only  the  Morini 


The  She-Wolfs  Litter  21 

remained  far  beyond  the  Scheldt,  skulking  from  one 
inaccessible  region  to  another. 

It  was  "that  summer  evening,"  when  in  gladness  of 
heart  he  donned  a  new  mantle, 

"What  day  he  overcame  the  Nervii,"1 

that  Caesar  noted  among  the  women  in  the  prison  pen 
a  frail  familiar  face. 

"My  General,"  exclaimed  his  lieutenant,  Quintus 
Cicero,  "what  meaneth  this  symbol?"  Tearing  her 
garment  from  her  throat,  he  disclosed  the  linked  Roman 
eagles. 

"Cicero,"  said  Caesar,  "this  is  no  common  maiden. 
From  this  moment  she  is  free. "  Then  turning  to  Lupa, 
he  asked,  "Where  wouldst  thou  go?  Shall  I  take  thee 
to  thy  grotto?" 

"Take  me  to  thine  heart ! "  she  cried  and  with  a  ripple 
of  laughter  leapt  into  his  arms. 

"A  Nervian  hath  conquered  the  conqueror  of  her 
people,"  he  said,  folding  his  mantle  tenderly  about 
her. 

To  him  the  act  signified  simply  protection ;  to  her,  as 
to  many  primitive  people,  this  enfolding  was  the  solemn 
marriage  rite,  and  from  that  hour  Lupa  regarded  herself 
as  his  wife.     "What  to  me,"  she  asked  herself,  "are 

1  See  funeral  oration  of  Marc  Antony.  Shakespeare,  Julius  Ccuor, 
act  iii.,  scene  ii. 


22  Old  Belgium 

father,  mother,  home,  or  country  compared  with  my 
great  Wolf  King?" 

After  the  victory  over  the  Nervii  there  was  a  brief 
respite  in  fighting,  while  Caesar  sat  him  down  by  the 
Portus  Itius  (Boulogne)  to  prepare  for  the  invasion 
of  Britain. 

The  native  hunters  brought  them  game.  Lupa 
strung  a  lithe  bow  with  a  cord  twisted  from  her  hair, 
and  frequently  returned  from  short  excursions  with  a 
bag  of  birds.  Often  she  placed  before  her  lord  fresh 
gathered  berries,  petites  /raises  des  bots,  heaped  in  vine 
leaves,  and  one  day  she  surprised  Caesar  with  a  pot  of 
cream  cheese  garnished  with  cresses  from  the  brook. 

"Where  didst  thou  find  these  curds?"  he  asked. 

"'Tis  my  secret,"  she  laughed,  and  then  showed  him 
tethered  behind  the  tent  a  new-born  kid  which  she  had 
found  in  the  wood. 

The  dam  had  followed,  as  Lupa  carried  it  to  the  camp, 
and,  made  gentle  by  kind  treatment,  yielded  milk  for 
their  table;  while  the  kid  became  a  frolicsome  pet, 
ofttimes  bringing  a  smile  to  Caesar's  face  as  it  gambolled 
with  its  child-mistress. 

Lupa  was  hardly  more  to  him, — a  charming  playmate, 
affectionate,  even  intelligent,  but  hardly  a  creature  with 
a  soul.  She  quickly  acquired  facility  in  speaking  a 
mongrel  Latin,  and  her  mistakes  in  construction  and  odd 
intonation  were  alike  fascinating.  Her  Celtic  enthu- 
siasm gave  to  every-day   occurrences   an  appetizing 


The  She-Wolfs  Litter  23 

flavour,  her  humour  enlivened  grey  days,  and  her  keen 
curiosity  drew  from  him  the  story  of  his  past  successes. 
In  this  she  was  more  clever  than  she  knew,  for  what 
better  entertainment  can  a  man  enjoy  than  that  of 
recounting  his  own  exploits,  and  seeing  them  magnified 
to  heroic  proportions  in  the  eyes  of  an  adoring  woman? 

Her  hunger  for  information  was  insatiable.  He 
must  needs  tell  her  again  and  again  the  story  of  Rome, 
describe  for  her  its  palaces  and  temples,  the  poetic 
imagery  of  its  superstitions,  so  different  from  her  simple 
Nature  worship,  and  its  grandiose  ceremonies  and  pic- 
turesque pageants. 

"One  day  thou  wilt  take  me  to  see  these  wonders?" 
she  had  asked. 

"Of  a  surety,  Lupella  mea,"  he  replied,  evading  her 
eyes.  "But  first,"  he  vaunted,  "I  shall  pacify  these 
barbarous  Britons;  and  thou  must  await  my  return." 

As  he  was  speaking,  he  was  abruptly  interrupted  by  a 
wail  from  the  frighted  girl.  "Woe!  Woe!  The  Wan- 
dering Rocks!"  she  cried,  wringing  her  hands  in  dismay. 
"They  bring  thy  certain  doom." 

"'Tis  but  a  hollow  ship,"  he  laughed,  "in  which  my 
soldiers  sail." 

Meanwhile  a  galley  oared  up  the  river,  neared  the 
shore,  dropped  anchor,  and  from  its  decks  several  centu- 
ries of  armed  legionaries  swarmed  into  the  water,  wading 
waist-deep  to  land. 

'"Tis  a  winged  whale,"  insisted  Lupa,  "whose  belly 


24  Old  Belgium 

vomiteth  forth  men!  Ah!  go  not  to  Britain;  'tis  but 
an  Isle  of  Gramaraye,  that  hath  no  existence,  of  which 
only  liars  have  told  and  only  dreamers  have  seen!" 

He  hardly  heard  her  and  Lupa  noted  the  change  in  her 
lord.  He  was  restless  and  moody.  Tripping  merrily 
by  his  side,  scanning  his  cold  visage,  Lupa  said  within 
her  heart : 

"Much  passeth  in  his  mind  which  concerneth  not 
me."  Clenching  her  small  hands  she  asked  herself, 
"Doth  he  dream  of  that  Egyptian,  Cleopatra  the  dark- 
eyed?"  Drawing  her  bow  with  sudden  impulse  she 
wounded  a  nightingale.  Then  great  tears  welled  to  her 
eyes  as  she  stroked  its  blood-bedabbled  breast.  Its 
trilling  in  the  long  summer  nights  had  been  such  delight. 

Returning  to  the  camp  she  sought  her  goat.  The 
men  had  made  its  little  one  their  mascot  and  had  taught 
it  new  tricks.  But  Caesar  had  found  goat's  flesh  par- 
ticularly palatable  and  Lupa  discovered  the  kid  spitted 
over  the  camp-fire. 

"Thou  hast  caused  my  pet  to  be  slaughtered!"  she 
accused  him. 

"What  wouldst  thou?"  he  answered.  "A  man  can- 
not live  on  curds  and  cresses;  I  crave  red  flesh. " 

"Blood  crieth  for  blood,"  she  exclaimed;  "not  flesh 
of  goats  will  sate  thee,  but  only  flesh  of  men.  But  when 
their  rotting  carcasses  taint  the  air,  ware  thee,  Caesar, 
for  the  wolves  will  come. " 

He  laughed  and  strode  to  the  beach  to  inspect  his 


The  She- Wolf  s  Litter  25 

ships.  A  withered  crone  who  had  been  gazing  at  them 
through  her  shading  palm  drew  near  to  Lupa.  "  Yea, " 
she  said,  her  head  nodding  with  a  palsy.  "I  had  a 
lover  once,  a  Viking,  Skiold  the  Thirsty,  who  sailed 
in  a  dragon-ship,  nor  came  again. " 

"Little  wit  hadst  thou,  Mother,"  said  Lupa,  "or 
thou  wouldst  have  sailed  with  him.  Then  would  he 
have  clothed  thee  with  the  lure  of  the  sea." 

She  did  not  answer,  but  sang  to  herself  in  a  cracked 
voice  a  song  of  the  fickleness  of  man.  Lupa  shivered 
as  she  heard  the  lonely  woman  shrilling  her  weird 

RUNE  OF  THE  SEA. 

For  manne  wil  mounte  the  grene-hilled  deepe 
And  mayde  maye  bide  alon  and  weepe, 
Til  the  Daye  of  Dome,  whenne  the  Earth  is  deade 
And  sere  and  bare  is  the  Oceann  bedde. 

Onlye  a  womanne  to  lave  his  feete, 
To  tend  the  hearthe  and  the  fyre  of  peat, 
With  warme  whyte  armes,  in  the  bridal-bedde, 
To  enfolde  and  to  pillowe  her  lorde  hys  head! 

Onlye  a  woman,  to  beare  him  childe, 

To  toil  and  to  moil,  in  the  home-croft  wilde, 

Til  her  earthe-born  bodye  is  bente  and  bowed 

And  a  corse,  she  is  wrapped  in  her  windinge  shroude. 

But  a  woman,  how  fayre  so  e'er  she  be, 

A  man  wil  forsake  for  the  sounding  sea. 

He  wil  wearye  and  chafe  neath  the  yoke  of  love, 

As  he  longes  on  the  winges  of  the  wind  to  rove. 


26  Old  Belgium 

Whenne  the  thund'rouse  bergs  burste  the  ice-bound  fiord 

And  the  floes  flashe  fire,  lik  a  two-edged  sworde, 

He  wil  skulk  to  the  beach  in  the  deade  of  nyghte 

To  launch  his  galley,  drawn  up  for  flighte, 

And  forsak  his  londe  and  his  loueing  bride 

To  plough  the  foam  of  the  wine-dark  tide. 

For  man  wil  mounte  the  grene-hilled  deepe 
And  mayde  maye  bide  alon  and  weepe, 
Til  the  Daye  of  Dome,  whenne  the  Earth  is  deade 
And  sere  and  bare  is  the  Oceann  bedde. 


IV 


O  see  you,  after  rain,  the  trace 

Of  mound  and  ditch  and  wall  ? 
O  that  was  a  Legion's  camping  place, 

When  Cassar  sailed  from  Gaul. 
For  England  is  not  common  Earth, 

Water  or  wood  or  air, 
But  Merlin's  Isle  of  Gramarye, 

Where  you  and  I  will  fare. 

— Rudyard  Kipling. 

Though  terrified  by  the  sea,  Lupa  resolved  to  share 
the  adventure  with  her  lord,  and,  disguised  as  a  boy- 
slave,  secreted  herself  in  the  hold  of  his  galley.  When 
they  sighted  the  white  cliffs  of  Britain,  to  the  astonish- 
ment of  Cassar,  she  issued  from  hiding. 

Trembling  with  fear  lest  her  lord  would  be  angered, 
she  extended  to  him  a  silver  drinking  cup.  "Thou 
didst  forget  thy  cup,"  she  said,  "and  if  there  be  goats 
in  Britain,  I  come  to  make  thy  cheeses. " 


The  She-Wolfs  Litter  27 

"By  Bacchus!"  he  exclaimed,  "be  there  goats  or 
none,  thou  shalt  bear  my  cup  and  press  my  curds. 
Retain  thy  boyish  vestments;  let  none  suspect  thou  art 
a  woman.  Bide  thou  with  the  ships  while  I  make  war 
against  Cassivellaunus. " 

"May  I  not  go  with  thee,  lord,  as  thy  slave?"  im- 
plored Lupa. 

"Nay;  there  will  be  grievous  battles.  When  that  I 
have  sacked  the  king's  dun l  on  Tamesis  tide,  I  purpose 
to  circumnavigate  the  isle,  for  I  fain  would  have  knowl- 
edge of  its  harbours  and  citadels.  Then  shalt  thou  sail 
with  me.  But  wander  not  upon  the  downs  without  the 
camp-wall,  lest  these  war-painted  Britons  rapt  thee 
from  me. " 

"But,  lord,  how  canst  thou  safely  sail  around  this 
isle?  Thou  knowest  not  the  rocks  and  shoals  of  its 
fearsome  seas." 

"Ere  this  it  hath  been  done.  A  Viking,  one  Skiold 
the  Thirsty,  in  his  high-pro  wed  ship,  circled  its  endless 
shore.  They  tell  he  had  a  mighty  beaker  fashioned 
from  the  tooth  of  some  colossal  beast,  a  unicorn  of  the 
sea,  mayhap,  and  on  its  ivory  rim  he  carved  each  har- 
bour, inlet,  frith,  and  fiord  with  graven  lines  for  rivers 
till  he  came  again  to  the  selfsame  notch  whence  he  at 
first  began.  Oh!  had  I  but  that  beaker!  Safely 
should  I  sail  and  grave  great  Latin  names  upon  its 
marge.     Ay,  what  a  trophy  to  display  at  Rome!" 

1  Dun — town  or  fort.     London,  the  town  of  Lud. 


28  Old  Belgium 

"Where  is  the  beaker,  lord?" 

"None  knoweth,  for  the  viking  died,  wrecked  upon 
rocks,  where  now  no  rocks  are  seen,  meeting  his  secret 
doom  in  mystery." 

"  Seek  not  the  beaker,  lord ;  for  here  I  see  the  Wander- 
ing Rocks  and  Maugis's  sorcery. " 

"How  should  I  seek  sunken  galleys?  'Tis  a  vain 
desire;  nathless  it  doth  consume  me." 

Day  and  night  Lupa  dreamed  of  the  beaker.  She 
questioned  the  natives,  who,  in  order  to  spy  on  the 
growing  fortifications,  sold  fruit  to  the  soldiery.  One 
morn  she  met  an  aged  fisher  hawking  shell-fish.  "Verily, 
he  had  heard  tell  of  a  beaker.  'Twas  in  the  possession 
of  the  Druidesses  of  the  Vanishing  Isle1;  who  guarded 
it  jealously  from  profane  eyes." 

"The  Vanishing  Isle!"  Lupa  echoed  wonderingly, 
11  and  where  may  that  be?" 

"Not  far  hence,  but  ill  to  come  by,"  he  quavered. 
"Ye  passed  it  as  ye  came,  though  perad venture  saw  it 
not.  When  danger  threatens  the  island  vanisheth. 
If  the  Druid  religion  is  supplanted  it  will  ne'er  return. " 

"Take  me  thither,"  besought  Lupa. 

"Nay,  will  I  not,  thou  a  man,  and  perchance  a  foe. 
Thou  shalt  ne'er  descry  it,  yet  'tis  alway  there — beyond 
that  rag  of  fog. " 

*  Caesar  landed  at  Deal,  near  Dover.  Local  tradition  still  tells  of  the 
Vanished  Isle  in  the  Goodwin  Sands.  The  data  for  this  second  expedi- 
tion to  Britain  and  for  the  great  uprising  of  the  Belgians  under  Ambiorix 
is  taken  from  Caesar's  Commentaries,  book  v. 


The  She-Wolf's  Litter  29 

Straining  her  eyes,  Lupa  fancied  she  could  discern  a 
smudge  of  purple,  murkier  than  the  mist.  There  were 
boats  about,  but  none  was  she  able  to  beg. 

THE   ISLE   OF   PHANTASY 

Unknowne  of  foolish  man's  unseeing  eyes, 
A  jewelle  fayre  set  in  a  golden  ringe, 
Where  joyaunce,  like  a  girdle,  eer  doth  clinge 
About  its  cinctured  strand  of  Paradise, 
A  fort'resse,  wrought  of  cunninge  glamouraye, 
No  fief  nor  seigneurye  of  Duke  or  Kinge, 
Tranced  in  slumbere  depe,  with  folden  winge, 
Afloat  upon  the  sea,  an  islande  lies. 

And  whenne,  with  vervaine  crowned  and  sickels  keene, 

The  Druide  daughters  file,  in  garmentes  grene, 

Filling  the  feresome  nighte  with  wailes  forlorne, 

To  heape  with  faggots  highe  the  sacred  pyre, 

The  islande  fades  in  flames  of  opalle  fire 

As  Skiold  blowes  a  blaste  from  his  grete  horn ! 

Early  one  morning  she  plunged  into  the  sunrise-flushed 
sea,  swimming  swiftly  in  the  direction  which  the  fisher 
had  indicated.  She  had  not  covered  half  a  league  when 
a  smother  of  fog  closed  over  her,  but  she  swam  steadily 
on.  At  noon  she  saw  a  low  embankment.  She  was 
wearying  fast  but  the  sight  revived  her  strength.  The 
tide  was  running  strongly  toward  the  island  and,  relax- 
ing all  effort,  she  allowed  herself  to  float  and  drift,  till, 
after  a  little,  her  feet  struck  against  a  barrier.  This 
was  not  a  rock,  but  a  stockade  of  great  logs  rising 
but  a  little  above  the  surface  of  the  sea. 


30  Old  Belgium 

Swimming  slowly  along  this  wall  she  strove  to  find 
steps  to  the  summit ;  but  found  no  landing  place,  while 
the  logs  had  been  stripped  of  their  bark  and  were 
slimy  with  kelp.  Nowhere  was  she  able  to  obtain 
hold  for  hand  or  foot.  At  length  her  groping  hand 
encountered  a  bronze  hinge.  Here  was  a  water-gate. 
It  opened  outward  and  the  in-rushing  tide  closed  it 
firmly.  Waiting  patiently  for  the  ebb,  she  crept  upon 
the  gate  and  slumbered  like  a  wearied  child.  The  tide 
reached  the  flood,  and  ebbing  seaward,  the  great  gates 
swung  open.  Lupa  wakened;  summoning  her  last 
strength  she  waded  painfully  a  little  space,  then  fell 
unconscious  upon  the  shore. 

There  were  shouts  of  alarm,  cries  of  women,  and  a 
scurrying  hither  and  thither.  Presently  Lupa  felt 
herself  lifted  by  gentle  hands.  She  raised  her  eyes 
and  saw  a  Druidess  bending  over  her. 

"Maiden,"  spake  the  priestess,  "know  you  not  that 
'tis  forbidden  for  any,  save  our  sacred  sisters,  to  set 
foot  upon  this  isle?" 

"I  am  a  Druidess"  murmured  Lupa,  "though  not  of 
thy  land.  Behold  the  signs:  the  severed  lock,  and, 
on  my  knees  and  breast,  the  scars  of  sacrificial  fire." 

"Thou  hast  passed  through  fire  to  Irminsul,"  cried 
the  Druidess,  "and  still  livest?" 

"Yea,  Maugis  sacrificed  me  to  the  gods,"  Lupa  an- 
swered, "but  my  soul  hath  returned  to  earth!" 

"Thou  shalt  be  a  holy  priestess  to  cull  the  sacred 


The  She-Wolf's  Litter  31 

mistletoe  and  guard  the  war  horn  of  Skiold,  in  which, 
stopping  the  mouthpiece,  he  quenched  his  thirst." 

Lupa  smiled  assent.  The  Priestess  brought  food 
and  raiment.  Robing  her  in  a  garment  of  green  hemp, 
they  led  her  to  an  aged  oak,  within  whose  lichened 
hollow  the  High  Priestess  disappeared. 

Kneeling  before  the  tree  the  Druid  virgins  intoned  a 
chant  and  presently,  illuming  the  shrine  with  a  wan 
bluish  light,  appeared,  as  though  rising  from  the  earth, 
the  great  horn  or  beaker  of  Skiold ! 

The  voice  of  the  Priestess  bade  Lupa  draw  near  and 
salute  it.  Reverently  the  novice  kissed  its  brim, 
whispering,  "Chalice  of  the  gods!  vouchsafe  that  I 
shall  bear  thee  to  my  sovereign  lord!"  As  she  gazed 
upon  it  in  awe  the  beaker  disappeared. 

Days  passed  during  which  Lupa  was  initiated  and 
instructed  in  the  sacred  rites.  The  hollow  oak  she 
was  told  was  not  the  accustomed  shrine  of  the  beaker. 
When  a  novice  begged  admission  into  the  order  the 
horn  showed  itself  miraculously,  if  she  were  worthy; 
at  other  times  it  reposed  in  a  mysterious  subterranean 
cavern  which  no  one  might  penetrate  except  on  certain 
great  ceremonial  occasions. 

Before  the  entrance  to  this  temple  a  perpetual  fire 
was  kept  burning,  and  terrible  tales  were  told  of  the 
fate  of  certain  curious  votaries  who,  during  their  vigil, 
had  dared  explore  the  sacred  cavern. 

Days  passed,   and,   detained  within   the  Vanishing 


32  Old  Belgium 

Isle,  Lupa  found  no  opportunity  to  escape.  She  knew 
that  Caesar  purposed  to  return  to  Belgium  before  the 
stormy  season.  Soon  the  autumnal  tempests  would 
toss  the  spray  across  the  dyke  and  clutch  at  the  water- 
gate  with  white  foam-fingers.  She  could  wait  no 
longer.  Assigned  one  night  to  the  duty  of  keeping 
alive  the  sacred  fire,  she  clad  herself  once  more  in 
boy's  clothing,  seized  a  brand,  and  descended  the 
staircase  leading  to  the  temple-cavern. 

A  growth  of  kelp  had  furrowed  the  steps  into  slimy 
ridges  upon  which  she  continually  missed  footing. 
Steadying  herself  with  a  hand  upon  the  wall  she  found 
it  hung  with  seaweed,  shells,  and  stalactites  from  floor 
to  ceiling.  A  cold  blast  laden  with  a  dank,  unwhole- 
some odour,  a  smell  as  of  death,  surged  through  the  pas- 
sage. She  reasoned  that  the  cavern  must  have  an 
outlet  to  the  sea. 

On  a  sudden,  it  seemed  to  her  that  another  torch 
flashed  up  beneath  her  very  feet.  She  shrank  back 
with  a  cry  as  she  saw  before  her  a  swirling  maelstrom 
of  unfathomable  depth. 

The  tide  was  ebbing  fast,  reverberating  through  the 
vaulted  chamber  like  the  booming  of  distant  thunder. 
Gradually  a  chain  of  rocks  showed  themselves  above 
the  surface  of  the  seething  water.  Stepping  cautiously 
from  stone  to  stone  Lupa  gained  a  slippery  ledge,  upon 
the  yonder  side. 

The  walls  widened  suddenly,  expanding  into  a  lofty 


The  She-Wolf's  Litter  33 

dome,  under  the  centre  of  which  stood  an  altar.  Above, 
suspended  by  a  golden  chain,  gleaming  bright  in  the 
tenebrous  gloom,  swung  the  great  war  horn  of  Skiold! 

Laying  down  her  torch  and  climbing  upon  the  altar, 
Lupa  severed  the  chain  and  concealed  the  beaker 
beneath  her  clothing.  With  a  joyous  bound  she 
sprang  to  the  ground,  overturning  the  torch ;  which, 
falling  into  a  little  pool,  left  her  in  utter  darkness. 

Groping  tremblingly  she  found  the  wall  and  felt 
along  its  surface  seeking  the  opening. 

Suddenly  the  sound  of  distant  footfalls  growing 
ever  nearer  fell  upon  her  ear.  The  sound  ap- 
proached, retreated,  died  away;  but  as  she  stirred  she 
heard  the  footsteps  again,  muffled,  stealthy,  and  very 
near.     She  was  not  alone  in  that  pitchy  darkness! 

Listening  intently  she  caught  heavy  breathing  and 
muttered  curses.  Another  prowler,  seeking  the  beaker, 
had  lost  his  way  in  the  cavern!  She  crouched  breath- 
less until  his  groping  hand  touched  her  shoulder,  then 
slipped  from  his  grasp  and  ran  wildly  from  her  unseen 
pursuer,  circling  the  chamber  in  frantic  search  for  the 
archway. 

Slipping  on  the  wet  pavement  she  fell.  He  was 
almost  upon  her,  when  she  whipped  the  horn  to  her 
lips  and  blew  a  blast  that  re-echoed  thunderously 
through  the  cavern. 

Instantly  the  intruder  took  to  flight,  more  dangerous 
in  his  terror  than  before,  for  it  was  impossible  to  foretell 
3 


34  Old  Belgium 

and  evade  his  blind  lunges.  At  last  the  trampling  died 
away.  The  man  had  found  the  opening  and  was 
fleeing  down  the  passage. 

A  dull  roaring  caught  the  ear  of  Lupa.  The  tide 
was  returning!  Then  a  splash,  a  cry.  The  man  had 
plunged  into  the  gulf.  His  loud  splashing  told  her 
that  he  was  swimming  rapidly.  A  bluish  light  showed 
far  at  the  left.  This  must  be  the  outlet  to  the  sea 
which  she  had  surmised  whence  the  man  had  come. 
The  moon  had  risen,  and  the  increasing  light  showed 
her  the  stepping-stones,  a  little  way  beneath  the  surface 
of  the  water.  She  waded  boldly  forth,  missed  footing, 
but  wading  and  swimming  achieved  the  stairway  and 
escaping  from  the  cave  plunged  into  new  dangers. 

These  did  not  at  once  manifest  themselves.  The 
peace  of  Heaven  brooded  over  the  enchanted  isle — the 
virgin  priestesses  slept  unconscious  of  danger.  The 
air  of  the  sweet  summer  night  after  the  foetid  death- 
damp  of  that  place  of  horror  seemed  the  quintessence 
of  myriad  flowers.  The  firmament  drooped  heavy 
with  stars. 

Lupa  climbed  to  the  summit  of  the  sea-wall  and 
gazed  toward  Britain.  The  moon  had  built  a  causeway 
of  light  across  the  untroubled  waters.  She  felt  herself 
so  spirit-light  that  she  almost  fancied  she  could  walk 
upon  it.  The  cup  which  her  lord  had  longed  for  was 
pressed  against  her  heart.  She  sensed  him  near,  so 
near. 


The  She-Wolf's  Litter  35 

As  she  looked  vague  forms  shadowed  in  the  distance. 
A  Roman  galley  oared  past,  its  lantern  shining  at  the 
poop,  its  sails  set  to  catch  every  puff  of  wind  and  pro- 
pelled by  the  soldiers  "sitting  orderly  and  smiting  the 
grey  sea  with  their  oars." 

Then  followed  another  galley  and  another.  The 
fleet  was  returning  to  Belgium.  She  shrieked  and 
waved  her  arms,  but  the  lookout  took  no  heed.  Sud- 
denly, across  the  moon's  silvern  reflection,  a  great 
galley,  bearing  the  eagle  of  Caesar,  almost  grazed  the 
rock  on  which  she  stood. 

Leaping  through  the  tossed  spray  with  an  agonized 
cry,  Lupa  plunged  into  the  swirling  waters. 

The  oarsmen  ceased  their  strokes,  as  though  by 
command.  Caesar  strode  to  the  rail  and  looked  down 
the  foaming  wake. 

She  lifted  the  beaker,  but  her  cry  was  drowned  in 
the  turmoil  of  the  waves.  Caesar  turned,  and  the 
galley  impelled  by  renewed  impetus  sped  on  its  way. 

With  the  consciousness  of  abandonment  Lupa 
ceased  her  desperate  swimming.  What  mattered 
death  or  aught  else  if  her  Wolf  King  had  ceased  to 
love  her?  Better  to  drown  than  to  live.  The  current 
bore  her  unresisting,  whither  she  did  not  know  or  care. 

Presently  the  rhythmic  stroke  of  oars  came  across 
the  water. 

Lupa  raised  her  head,  as,  riding  the  billows  like  a 
swan,   gliding  through  the  glimmering  moonlight,  a 


36  Old  Belgium 

great  argosy  with  dragon  figurehead  and  red  swelling 
sail  rounded  the  promontory.  On  it  rode,  over  the 
heaving  swell,  dipping  in  the  trough  of  the  cavernous 
hollows,  listing  to  larboard  under  the  breath  of  a 
sudden  squall.  She  could  see  the  bronzed  backs  of  the 
rowers,  as  like  swords  from  the  scabbard,  flashed  their 
glittering  oar-blades.  Their  shields  hung  above  ranged 
in  line.    A  viking  ship! 

It  was  with  one  of  these  Berserks  that  she  had 
played  her  game  of  hide-and-seek  in  the  dark  cavern. 
Not  so  easily  should  he  take  from  her  the  beaker 
which  they  both  had  sought.  She  swam  toward  shore 
with  all  her  strength.  The  water-gate  was  closed. 
She  paddled  swiftly  along  the  wall  seeking  vainly 
some  fissure  in  which  to  hide;  but  the  island,  on 
this  side,  was  buttressed  by  stranded  Wandering 
Rocks. 

On  a  sudden,  from  its  lair  in  the  cliff,  horse-headed 
like  the  prow  of  the  dragon-ship,  with  long,  white- 
maned  neck,  black  mouth,  and  eyes  of  green  flame,  a 
Thing  struck  at  her! 

Lupa  swerved  with  a  shriek — clammy  and  viscous 
it  grazed  her  side,  its  fanged  mouth  breathing  putre- 
faction. 

With  frenzied  strokes  she  swam  backward  into  the 
path  of  the  oncoming  galley. 

The  Thing  followed  fast  upon  her,  flapping  its 
broad  paws  and  spouting  like  a  whale.    Raising  its 


The  She-Wolf's  Litter  37 

hideous  head,  luminous  as  phosphorus,  high  in  air, 
it  flung  its  many-folded  tail  in  wide  circles  about  her, 
tightening  them  ever  in  close-constricting  coils. 

Simultaneously  a  thunderous  shout,  "So  Orml  So 
Orml  The  Sea-Serpent,"  rang  from  the  Berserks,  as 
they  oared  furiously  toward  her. 

So  absorbed  was  the  monster  in  his  prey  that  he 
heeded  not  the  approaching  galley.  Rallying  all  her 
strength  Lupa  strove  to  thrust  away  the  coils.  They 
pinioned  her  arms  to  her  sides  and  were  crushing  out 
her  breath. 

The  carven  image  of  the  monster  loomed  high  above, 
and  spat  javelins  into  the  body  of  its  living  twin. 

Without  relaxing  grip,  the  wounded  hydra  plunged 
in  agony  to  the  depths  of  the  sea !  Lupa  heard  vaguely 
a  far-away  cry.  Then  merciful  oblivion  blotted  out 
all  consciousness. 

She  awoke  to  find  herself  lying  upon  the  deck  of  the 
dragon-ship.  A  winged-helmeted  viking  bent  over 
her,  a  Hercules  in  bulk,  with  saffron,  forked  beard  and 
closely  curling  hair.  His  brawny  arms  and  chest  were 
pelted  like  a  bear  and  he  had  the  voice  of  a  walrus,  but 
his  sea-blue  eyes  were  wide  with  kindly  wonder. 

"Hammer  o'  Thor!"  he  bellowed,  "thou  art  alive! 
Mightily  did  I  fight  to  save  thee.  Well  for  me  that 
I  am  blubbered  like  a  seal,  and  thus  rose  to  the  surface, 
for  thou  wast  drunken  with  sea-mead  and  wouldst 
ne'er  have  floated." 


>t  » 


38  Old  Belgium 

He  spoke  in  the  Saxon  tongue  from  which  that  of 
the  Nervii  was  derived. 

"I  thank  thee,  lord,"  Lupa  replied,  and  then  she 
saw  that  he  held  the  beaker,  which  had  fallen  from  its 
hiding-place. 

"'Tis  the  horn  of  my  father,"  he  said,  "that  I 
sailed  the  world  to  seek.  Yet,  when  within  that  cave 
of  horror  I  heard  the  blast,  I  deemed  'twas  sounded  by 
his  spirit.  I  feared  my  father  living,  and  would  fain 
not  meet  him  dead.  Lad,  how  earnest  thou  by  the 
horn?" 

11  Son  of  Skiold, "  answered  Lupa,  "  I  stole  it  for  thee ! " 

He  started.     "Thou  knowest  my  name?" 

"I  have  heard  of  thy  renown,  good  my  lord.  Bear 
me,  I  pray  thee,  to  Belgica,  even  to  mine  own 
people." 

"'Tis  on  my  homeward  track,"  he  said,  "and  now 
that  the  cursed  Romans  have  sailed  southward  we 
turn  the  dragon's  prow  to  Helgoland,  though  on  the 
way  I  must  moor  for  food  and  water  in  that  same 
gloomy  land  of  which  thou  speakest." 

With  a  stout  heart  Skioldson  sped  to  the  north  with 
his  treasure-trove,  a  strong  hand  tightening  on  the 
tiller  and  eyes  keen  as  a  sea-gull's  piercing  the  lowering 
brume.  Lupa  sat  beside  searching  for  some  familiar 
landmark,  nor  quitting  her  lookout  day  or  night. 

Skioldson  was  kind  to  her,  too  kind  indeed.  A  fear 
numbed  her  heart  that  he  suspected  she  was  a  woman. 


The  She-Wolf's  Litter  39 

On  the  second  night  they  sighted  low-lying  land. 

"Look,  thou  of  the  Quenchless  Thirst!"  cried  Lupa. 
"  'Tis  the  great  mouth  of  the  Scaldis.  I  bless  thee  for 
thus  bearing  me  safely  upon  my  way." 

The  viking  eyed  her  strangely.  ."Thy  way  must  be 
mine,  maiden,"  he  said.  "Skiold  was  called  as  thou 
saidest.  He  thirsted  not  for  wine  but  for  blood.  My 
thirst  is  for  beauty  and  thou  shalt  quench  it." 

A  crimson  flood  surged  to  her  face,  then  ebbing  left 
it  white.  "I  brought  the  beaker,  lord,  and  thou  didst 
promise  to  set  me  free,  else  will  I  vanish." 

"Who  art  thou,"  he  asked,  "a  Druid  priestess?" 

"Yea,"  she  replied,  "one  who  can  work  thy  doom." 

"Nay,  I  will  love  thee  not  against  thy  will,"  he 
answered,  "but  ever  thou  shalt  sail  until  I  win  thee." 

Far  up  the  Scaldis  they  penetrated  into  the  land  of 
the  Nervii.  Lupa  saw  her  people  skulking  in  woods 
but  they  fled  as  the  dragon-ship  approached.  There 
were  wild  cattle  browsing  in  the  meads  and  Skioldson 
gave  order  for  a  hunt.  The  sails  clanged  upon  the 
deck,  with  cables  of  hide  the  Berserks  moored  the 
dragon  ship,  and  seizing  their  bows  and  javelins  scat- 
tered in  pursuit  of  the  game ;  but  ever  the  viking  kept 
Lupa  at  his  side  and  she  found  no  opportunity  to 
escape. 

The  warriors  returned  to  the  river-bank  laden  with 
game.  They  had  slain  a  great  urox,  two  elks,  deer, 
many  birds,  and  a  creel  of  speared  fish.     They  stowed 


40  Old  Belgium 

the  greater  part  in  the  hold;  then  digging  a  pit,  lined 
it  with  stones  and  kindled  a  goodly  fire  therein.  Dress- 
ing the  carcase  of  the  urox,  they  placed  within  it  that  of 
a  deer,  and  filled  its  hollow  with  hares,  pheasants, 
partridges,  salmon,  and  eels;  laying  the  mighty  mass 
when  the  fuel  was  consumed  upon  the  red-hot  stones, 
they  covered  all  with  water-weeds. 

When  the  meats  were  roasted  they  set  forth  their 
repast  upon  the  green  sward,  brought  from  the  ship 
a  score  of  loaves  of  black  bread,  and,  to  wash  all  down,  a 
vat  of  Drontheim  ale,  strong  and  foaming  from  long 
keeping. 

The  Berserks  were  gathering  about  the  trenchers  and 
unsheathing  their  knives,  when,  cantering  in  line  over 
the  plain,  appeared  a  century  of  Roman  legionaries. 

The  heart  of  Lupa  bounded  and  sank  as  she  cried 
to  herself,  "Caesar!"  For  she  recognized  that  the 
youthful  leader  riding  in  advance  was  not  her  Wolf 
King,  but  his  lieutenant  Quintus  Cicero.  Caesar  had 
put  him  in  command  of  the  troops  whom  he  had  left 
to  winter  with  the  Nervii ;  and  Cicero  was  now  returning 
from  Portus  Itius,  whither  he  had  gone  to  meet  his 
general. 

Hailing  the  Romans  with  friendly  greeting,  Skioldson 
invited  them  to  share  the  feast.  Cicero,  who  had  no 
desire  to  provoke  a  quarrel,  accepted  the  hospitality 
of  the  viking. 

Bestowing  their  arms  at  an  equal  distance  from  one 


«  « 


nMUIIIIIIIIIIItlllUIIIIIUIimilllimillllMllllllfr 


Quentin  Matsys,  the  blacksmith  artist,  who  linked  the  fifteenth 
and  sixteenth  centuries 


The  She- Wolf's  Litter  41 

another  and  throwing  themselves  upon  the  ground, 
both  parties  partook  of  the  smoking  meats  in  the 
utmost  good  fellowship. 

Cicero  and  some  of  his  soldiers  had  acquired  a 
smattering  of  the  Saxon  language ;  they  told  each  other 
tales,  exchanged  jokes,  and,  when  they  had  put  from 
them  the  desire  for  food,  broached  the  mead  anew. 

Stopping  the  mouthpiece  with  his  thumb,  Skioldson 
pledged  Cicero  in  the  great  war  horn  of  his  father. 
Borne  by  Lupa,  the  loving-cup  went  round.  With 
cries  of  "Wassail!"  "Skoal!"  and  "Evoe"  Bacchus!  they 
drank  toasts  to  Thor,  Odin,  and  the  Roman  gods. 

Baldrics  and  tongues  alike  were  loosed.  Hearts 
grew  light  in  proportion  as  bellies  were  weighted. 

Lupa  sickened  with  fear  as  the  mirth  waxed  furious. 
When  she  filled  the  beaker  for  Skioldson  his  hand  stole 
about  her  waist  and  he  devoured  her  with  leering  eyes 
which  seemed  to  strip  her  of  all  clothing.  Her  hand 
lay  for  a  moment  cold  as  ice  in  his  hot  grasp,  then, 
evading  his  embrace,  she  glided  like  a  ghost  through 
the  group  of  gluttonous  revellers.  Wan-faced  and 
with  lack-lustre  eyes,  she  dragged  herself  listlessly 
about,  serving  mechanically  and  smiling  pitifully  when 
addressed. 

Others  at  the  feast  were  grave  and  silent.  Under 
guard  of  Cicero  was  a  band  of  British  hostages  received 
from  Cassivellaunus.  Amongst  them  was  an  aged 
bard  with  a  harp  slung  across  his  shoulder. 


42  Old  Belgium 

Spying  him  Skioldson  shouted  for  song.  "Scald!" 
he  cried,  "strike  thy  Druid  lyre!  To  Love  or  War  it 
matters  not.  Sing  to  fair  Freya  or  thundering  Thor! 
Sing  and  loudly!" 

The  old  man  eyed  Cicero  questioningly. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  latter,  "but  lend  me  thy  harp  and 
I  will  give  thee  theme  and  example.  Of  old  my  father 
taught  me  the  lays  of  Homer  in  praise  of  Odysseus. 
Sing  thou  the  praise  of  Caesar." 

Mead  had  made  Cicero  vainglorious  and  had  taken 
from  him  pity,  or  he  would  not  thus  have  insulted  his 
captive.  Tuning  the  harp,  the  young  Roman  sang,  for 
song  was  in  his  mouth  as  eloquence  in  that  of  his  great 
kinsman: 


Singe,  O  Bard,  of  the  Chief,  who  wanderinge  fer  to  the 

North-lande, 
Fer   from   the   echoing   halles   and  the  bryght-glowinge 

hearthe-stones  of  home, 
Fared  with   his    legiouns  to   Gaule,   throughe  wildering 

wonders  unnumbered, 
Bearing  to  uttermost  landes  the  wolf  and  the  eagles  of 

Rome; 
Til  that  he  came,  onne  a  daye,  to  the  mist-shrouded  isle 

of  the  Britons, 
Lair  of  a  lion-like  race  of  feresome  and  horrible  men, 
Daubing  ther  bodyes  and  heades  with  woad  blue,  and 

vermillion, 
Warriours  wilde  of  the  wold  and  numberlesse  eek  as  the 

leaves; 
Ruled  by  an  over-lorde  grim,  the  despot  Cassivellaunus. 


The  She- Wolf's  Litter  43 

Who,  by  the  might  of  his  arm,  a  usurper,  ascended  the 

throne, 
Wresting  the  reines  of  the  state  from  the  innocent  Mandu- 

beratius, 
Gyring  his  chariot  tyres  o'ere  the  corses  of  comrades  and 

foes! 

Smiting  his  harp-strings  till  they  clanged  as  though 
struck  with  a  sword,  the  ancient  bard  then  shrilled 
forth: 

A  SAGA  OF  BRITAIN 

Whilom  across  the  wyde  sea,  at  nonetide   glemed  in  the 

offinge 
Floatinge  whyte  in  the  sunne,  lik  the  plumage  of  guiles  in  a 

gale, 
Fluttered  a  fleete  from  the  Southe,  onne  tirelesse,  terrible 

pinions, 
Galleys  and  triremes,  a  hoste,  an  armada  of  myriade  saile. 
Cesare,  the  Wolf-Kinge,  had  com!  with  his  packe  of  hun- 

geringe  wolflings 
Panting  and  hot  for  the  fray — relentlesslye  thirsting  for 

gore. 
What  myghte  ther  people  availe,  at  grips  with  this  "dread 

of  the  Vikings"? 

As  wel  myghte  a  lambkin  prevaile  o'er  the  fanges  of  her 

pitilesse  foe 
"Caesar!"  whystled  the  wind,  in  the  chalk-whyte  crannies 

of  Dover, 
"Caesar!"  echoed  the  sea,  o'ere  the  limitlesse  sand-dunes  of 

Deal. 
"Caesar!"  murmured  the  trees,  from  the  loch-landes  down 

to  the  moorlands, 


44  Old  Belgium 

"  Caesar,  the  eagle  of  War ! "  hissed  the  serpente  coiled  in  his 

covere, 
"  Caesar,  the  dreade  Sea-Wolfe,  with  his  raveninge  packe  is 

here!" 

Backe  to  the  highlande  heaths,  from  the  beach,  ran  the 

frighted  Britons, 
Backe  to  the  lowlande    bogges  fled  the  Celts   and  the 

terrified  Picts; 
Felling  the  trees  lik  haile,  with  the  blows  of  ther  bronze 

battle-axes, 
Pointing  them  sharp  as  dartes,  for  the  walle  of  ther  grete 

stockade. 

Here  they  waited,  alerte  in  the  gloome  of  ther  fortified 

foreste, 
Archers  and  speremen  untolde  and  fur-cladde  charioteer, 
Lurking,  in  coweringe  hate,  at  a  ford  of  the  tawnye  Tamisis 
Trohantes,  the    traitor,  to  slewe,  inne    the    marshes  of 

Ludesdunne  near. 

Massed  in  multiple  rankes  came  the  Romane  centuries 

endlesse, 
Crepinge  and  crawlinge  slowe,  lik  a  tortoise  of  geaunt  size, 
Surging  ther  glittering  crestes  as  a  billow  sweeps  o'er  the 

beach-sand, 
Heaving  the  phalanx  of  steel  on  the  speres  of  ther  Briton 

foes. 

Manfullye  them  we  withstode  with  slinge-stone,  arrowe,  and 

javelyn, 
Hardilye  thrustinge  our  swerdes  and  stubbornlye  beating 

them  backe, 
Swiftlye  our  chariots  charged  'gainst  the  speres  of  ther  on- 

rushinge  cohortes, 
Striving  to  batter  a  breache  in  the  walle  of  ther  iron  attacke. 


The  She- Wolf's  Litter  45 

Vaine  was  the  hope  that  we  helde  to  vanquish  the  spoiler 

of  Empires, 
Vaine  wer  oure  Druidic  gods,  in  the  houre  of  oure  desperate 

stresse, 
Salwarte    as     bullockes    they  came   and    trampled    our 

hearthe  stones  defencelesse 
Wreaking  upon  Britain's  necke  the  hate  of  the  conquerour's 

heel! 

Her  heart  singing  a  pasan  of  triumph,  Lupa  murmured 
to  the  broken-spirited  bard,  "Drink  and  console  thy- 
self that  none  but  the  Unconquerable  could  vanquish 
thy  nation." 

Skioldson  was  ill-pleased.  "Hammer  of  Thor!"  he 
fumed.  "Scald,  I  demanded  a  saga.  Thou  hast 
keened  me  a  dirge.  Myself  will  sing  thee  a  rune  that 
befits  the  hour."     Taking  the  harp  the  Viking  sang: 

A  RUNE  OF  THE  SEA 

Inne  the  loathye  lande  of  Iselande 

Wher  the  verye  summers  freeze, 

I  furrowed  the  snowe  wyth  reindeere; 

But  my  soule  was  sicke  at  ease, 

Til  I  quit  that  lande  for  a  nameless  strande 

And,  a  Vikinge,  ploughed  the  seas. 

Chorus  of  Berserks 

Skoal,  Drink-hael,  Skoal! 

We  wil  weather  rocke  and  shoale, 

A  pull  on  the  home,  and  a  pull  on  the  oare, 

The  Vikinge' s  the  Sea  Kinge  for  evermore! 


46  Old  Belgium 

Ever  I  sailed  to  the  Southlande, 
Through  the  riftes  of  Norwaye's  rime, 
From  the  Northlande  snowe  of  the  longe  ago 
To  the  blande  Iberianne  clime. 

Chorus 

Skoal,  Drink-hael  Skoal!  etc. 

From  the  jade-whyte  bergs  of  Iselande 
Wher  the  tusked  walruss  roare 
To  the  tropic  moone  and  the  wylde  typhoon 
And  the  sleepye  palm-clad  shore. 

Chorus 

Skoal,  Drink-hael,  Skoal !  etc. 

Sende  me  a  gale  and  a  frothinge  sea 

In  my  grete  sea-dragonne,  stil, 

Wher  the  storm-racks  drive  and  the  dolphins  dive 

I  would  skoal,  til  I  drinke  my  fill! 

Chorus  of  Berserks 

Skoal,  Drink-hael,  Skoal! 

We  wil  weather  rocke  and  shoale, 

A  pull  on  the  home  and  a  pull  on  the  oare, 

The  Vikinge's  the  Sea-Kinge  for  evermore! 

Loud  acclaim  followed  the  song  of  Skioldson. 

"Sing  we  now  of  love  and  wine"  cried  Cicero;  and 
he  launched  into  an  exuberant  dythyramb:  "Drink 
every  man  to  his  wife  or  paramour." 

The  welkin  rang  with  "Evoe,  Venus"  and  cries  of 
"Skoal!" 


The  She- Wolf's  Litter  47 

"Hearken,  my  guest,"  cried  the  Viking,  "neither 
wife  nor  leman  have  I  yet;  but,  by  the  Thunderer, 
this  shall  be  my  wedding-night!  Toast  ye  all  my 
bride!" 

With  a  scythe-like  sweep  of  his  mighty  arm  he  zoned 
Lupa  about  the  waist  and  hoisted  her  to  his  shoulder. 

"A  youth!"  laughed  Cicero;  "what  jest  is  this?" 

Up  went  the  brawny  hand  of  the  viking  and  tearing 
open  the  girl's  doublet  he  displayed,  between  two 
mounds  of  snow,  the  golden  Roman  eagles. 

Cicero  stared  for  a  space,  with  hung  jaw;  then 
recognized  the  brooch  and  its  wearer. 

Lupa,  from  her  high  pedestal,  held  out  beseeching 
arms.  The  Roman  started  to  his  feet,  then,  as  her 
finger  touched  lip,  held  himself  in  rein.  "Viking!" 
he  cried,  "grant  thy  bride  bring  me  the  beaker  that 
I  may  drink  her  health." 

Carrying  it  to  him  Lupa  whispered,  "Save  me,  for 
honour  of  Caesar!" 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  his  legion,  Cicero  dashed 
the  mead  in  the  face  of  Skiold  and  sprang  to  arms. 

Instantly  his  men  rallied  about  their  commander, 
the  scene  of  revelry  transformed  to  one  of  battle. 

Quick  work  and  bloody.  Grasping  with  both  hands 
his  ell-long  iron  sword,  Skioldson  charged  upon  Cicero 
like  a  boar  of  the  forest.  Steel  clanged  against  steel 
and  flesh  gripped  flesh.  It  was  as  though  these  two 
were  the  vortex  of  a  whirlpool  of  seething  death. 


48  Old  Belgium 

Their  men  fought  around  them  with  the  fury  of 
fiends.  Like  the  lightnings  of  Thor  flashed  the  two- 
edged  sword  of  the  viking;  but  Roman  discipline  told 
over  the  brute  strength  of  the  giant. 

With  an  adroit  feint,  Cicero  whipped  his  blade  under 
the  guard  and  into  the  heart  of  Skioldson.  The  Ber- 
serks fled,  fighting  their  way  backward  bearing  the  body 
of  their  chieftain  to  his  dragon  ship. 

"Enough!"  cried  Cicero  to  the  hot  pursuing  soldiers. 
"Legionaries,  to  horse!  Better  use  have  we  for  our 
swords  than  to  slaughter  drunken  swine!" 

Blowing  a  blast  of  triumph  through  the  mead-washed 
hollow  of  the  great  horn,  Lupa  ran  to  the  Roman. 
Swinging  her  up  before  him  Cicero  scanned  the  faces  of 
the  men  in  search  of  the  British  bard.  "Hath  the 
hostage  fled?"  he  questioned. 

"Whither  thou  may  est  not  follow,"  Lupa  re- 
plied. "Fighting  for  thee,  lord,  he  found  escape  in 
death!" 

That  night,  black  against  a  pale  green  sky,  the  skin- 
clad  savages  of  Ambiorix  swarmed  upon  the  unsuspect- 
ing Roman  camp.  Suddenly  awakened  by  their  yells 
and  assault,  Cicero  found  himself  beset  and  surrounded 
by  an  innumerable  horde. 

With  the  utmost  skill  and  intrepidity  he  gave  orders 
for  strengthening  the  fortifications. 

At  intervals  along  the  walls,  manned  with  catapults, 


The  She-Wolfs  Litter  49 

an  hundred  towers  were  built  from  which  the  slingers 
and  bowmen  poured  a  deadly  rain. 

At  sundown  the  Romans  made  a  sortie,  but  were 
driven  back  with  tremendous  losses,  leaving  the 
trenches  piled  with  their  dead.  Ever  new  hosts  came 
on.  The  Nervians  crucified,  or  burned  before  their 
eyes,  all  captured  outside  the  walls.  Slingers  sent 
red-hot  balls  of  clay  and  flaming  javelins  upon  the 
thatched  roofs. 

As  Caesar  himself  said:  "Though  aware  that 
their  possessions  were  burning,  not  alone  did  no  one 
quit  the  ramparts,  but  scarcely  did  any  look  behind 
him  at  the  conflagration." 

Cicero  despatched  messenger  after  messenger  to 
Caesar  beseeching  succour.  These  the  Belgae  inter- 
cepted and  put  to  death  and  torture.  "  If  he  come  not 
to  our  aid,"  said  Cicero,  "we  are  lost,  but  how  can  I 
hope  to  send  a  messenger?" 

"I  will  go,"  Lupa  volunteered.  "My  Nervian 
friends  will  let  me  pass.  I  know  the  forest  paths  and 
waterways.     Give  me  the  letter." 

He  strove  to  dissuade  her,  but  their  need  was  great. 
Lupa  seized  the  letter  and  was  off. 

Three  days  after,  wild-eyed  and  haggard,  a  Nervian 
boy,  whom  Caesar  did  not  remember  ever  to  have  seen, 
presented  him  with  the  desperate  appeal  of  his  lieu- 
tenant. 

"Canst  thou  find  thy  way  back  with  my  answer?" 
4    . 


50  Old  Belgium 

"Yea,  lord,"  Lupa  replied  in  a  voice  scarce  above 
a  whisper. 

"Then  run,  rest  not  till  thou  hast  placed  this  pro- 
mise of  succour  in  the  hand  of  Cicero." 

She  started  to  go,  but  tottered  at  the  threshold. 

"Stay,"  called  the  general,  "hast  thou  had  food  this 
day?" 

"Nay,  lord,  nor  for  three  days;  but  'tis  not  for  food 
I  hunger,"  she  murmured,  and  dropped  as  though 
shot  to  the  heart.  When  consciousness  returned  Lupa 
met  the  anxious  eyes  of  her  Wolf  King.  His  approving 
smile  of  recognition  revived  her  more  than  the  wine  and 
food. 

"Thou  hast  done  well,  child,"  he  said,  "rest  thee  here; 
another  shall  bear  my  letter  in  thy  stead." 

"Nay,  lord,  none  can  find  the  way  so  quickly  or  pass 
so  surely.     I  go,  to  wait  thy  coming." 

Back  through  the  hostile  armies  she  threaded  her 
way  till  she  reached  the  camp  of  Cicero.  Fastening 
the  letter  to  an  arrow  she  shot  it  over  the  fortifications, 
where  it  fell  near  the  officers'  quarters. 

Some  days  later  the  smoke  of  Caesar's  camp-fires 
was  seen.  The  forces  of  Ambiorix,  withdrawing  to 
the  forest,  were  pursued  with  frightful  slaughter  and 
for  a  time  the  great  uprising  of  the  Belgians  was 
quelled. 

On  the  next  day  their  deliverer  was  welcomed  with 
delirious  joy  by  the  beleaguered  legions.     Cicero  praised 


The  She-Wolf's  Litter  51 

the  unfaltering  courage  of  Lupa,  telling  his  commander 
how  she  had  filched  the  beaker  of  the  vikings  and 
committed  it  to  his  care  while  making  her  hazardous 
journey. 

"Bear  it  to  me  upon  the  instant,"  Caesar  commanded. 

Lupa  entered,  knelt  at  her  lord's  feet,  and  extended  to 
him  the  horn  of  Skiold. 

Caesar  circled  the  rim  joyously  with  his  eyes,  exclaim- 
ing, "Rome,  thou  canst  not  now  gainsay  my  word! 
Here  for  all  time  is  the  earnest  that  Caesar  first  encir- 
cled Britain."  Then  addressing  Lupa,  he  asked, 
"Why  didst  thou  not  bear  me  this  talisman  ere  I  left 
the  Northern  Isle?" 

"Good  my  lord,"  with  an  accent  of  tender  reproach, 
"indeed  I  would  fain  have  given  it  thee,  when  thy 
galley  rounded  the  Isle  that  Vanisheth,  but  thou 
wouldst  not  receive  it." 

His  heart  smote  him  vaguely,  for  he  had  seen  her,  and 
wearied  by  her  persistent  following  had  not  paused, 
striving  to  convince  himself  that  she  was  a  water 
wraith.  So  she  had  come  into  his  life,  so  it  was  fitting 
she  should  disappear. 

But  she  had  proved  herself  useful  and  might  still  be 
so.  "Thou  art  a  good  child,"  he  said,  patting  her 
head,  "and  I  will  requite  thee." 

Her  eyes  glistened.  Her  Wolf  King  was  not  ill 
pleased  that  she  had  returned  to  him.  Then  she 
sighed  as  she  thought  how  much  more  rejoiced  he  was  to 


52  Old  Belgium 

possess  the  beaker!  Would  his  old  love  never  awaken? 
Would  he  always  receive  her  devotion  as  tribute,  giving 
naught  in  return? 

Throughout  that  bitter  winter  campaign  Lupa  was 
a  far  greater  factor  in  his  success  than  Caesar  realized. 
Undaunted  by  defeat,  confident  of  victory  when  even 
his  wonted  assurance  quailed;  amusing,  inspiring, 
resourceful,  she  diverted  the  relentless  Roman  by  un- 
ceasing gaiety,  encouraged  him  by  indomitable  faith, 
and  reinforced  him  by  clear-sighted  counsels. 

Nature  seemed  to  fight  for  the  Belgians:  the  snow, 
the  cruel  wind,  even  the  wild  beasts,  for  a  pestilence 
of  wolves  descended  upon  the  Roman  army.  After 
each  battle  they  gorged  themselves  upon  the  corpses, 
and  when  these  failed  the  famished  beasts  made  mighty 
havoc  among  the  soldiery. 

Despite  all  Ambiorix  was  vanquished  and  at  last 
Caesar  was  weary  of  fighting,  weary  of  privations,  sick 
even  of  Lupa,  with  her  hound's  eyes  hungering  for  a 
caress.  Was  this  the  life  for  a  man  who  would  be 
Imperator? 

A  messenger  rode  from  Rome  with  alarming  tidings : 
Marcellus  was  fomenting  a  cabal  in  the  Senate.  'Twas 
high  time  that  he  should  appear  in  person  and  thwart 
the  intrigues  of  these  conspirators. 

Riding  alone  in  the  forest  he  planned  his  stroke  of 
the  Rubicon.  Commanding  the  army  he  could  com- 
mand Rome.    In  Belgium  and  Gaul  he  had  recruited 


The  She-Wolf's  Litter  53 

native  legions  which  through  long  campaigns  were 
hardened  into  experienced  warriors.  These  should 
serve  his  ambition  to  overawe  Italy. 

Shouts  of  delight  rang  through  the  camps  as  the 
soldiers  received  orders  for  the  homeward  march. 
In  celebration  of  the  welcome  tidings  the  centurions 
held  high  revel  on  the  eve  of  their  departure.  It  was 
an  orgy  in  which  joy  was  unrestrained,  and  to  show 
good-fellowship  Caesar  drank  more  deeply  of  the 
Rhenish  wine  than  was  seemly,  and  reeling  to  his  tent 
ere  dawn  sank  down  upon  the  couch  in  a  drunken  stupor. 

Lupa  waited  him  with  wide-eyed  fear,  for  through 
the  night  she  had  been  roused  from  slumber  by  the 
howling  of  wolves.  She  heard  the  pattering  of  their 
soft  feet  and,  leaping  from  her  couch,  looked  into  the 
night.  The  sentinel  had  profited  by  Caesar's  absence 
to  take  leave.  The  fire  had  burned  to  ashes ;  she  must 
rekindle  it  to  scare  away  the  marauders. 

Rubbing  two  sticks  together  she  ignited  a  heap  of 
dry  leaves,  when,  with  a  sudden  bound,  a  starved  wolf 
sprang  past  her  through  the  darkness  into  the  tent. 

"'Ware  thee,  Cassar!"  shrieked  Lupa,  but  the  wolf 
remained  within.  All  was  silence.  Caesar  had  not 
wakened.     No  help  was  nigh. 

Creeping  softly  to  the  tent  she  peered  within.  The 
light  of  the  fire  showed  her  Caesar,  breathing  heavily, 
and  the  wolf  crouching  to  spring. 

With  a  cry  Lupa  leapt  upon  the  beast  and  thrust 


54  Old  Belgium 

the  sword  hilt-deep  into  its  corded  throat.  The  wolf 
writhed  beneath  her,  bit  and  lacerated  her  arm.  Then 
slowly  its  fangs  relaxed  and  it  tumbled  a  hairy  heap. 

She  bound  her  arm,  and  dragged  the  dead  wolf 
without  the  door.  The  trumpets  sounded  dawn; 
Caesar  sat  up  and  looked  about  him  dazedly.  His  eyes 
falling  upon  the  wolf  he  sprang  instantly  to  his  feet. 

"The  sentry  hath  slain  it?  He  shall  be  requited," 
he  exclaimed.  Then  catching  Lupa's  significant  smile 
he  noted  the  bloody  sword  and  her  bandaged  arm. 
"Thou  didst  this?"  he  asked  in  astonishment.  "Hast 
thou  then  no  fear?" 

"Not  for  myself,  lord." 

"For  me  then?"  he  asked.  "Didst  fear  I  could  not 
defend  myself?" 

"Yea,  lord,  I  feared  for  thee  and  also  for  another. 
I  feared,  should  I  slay  not  the  wolf,  for  the  babe  I 
shall  one  day  bear  thee;  which  leaped  then  beneath 
my  heart." 

The  occasion  of  this  revelation  was  ill-chosen.  It 
made  little  impression  upon  his  dulled  brain;  many 
important  and  perplexing  problems  demanded  his 
attention.  He  was  in  no  mood  to  consider  another 
and  he  dismissed  it  as  mere  woman's  phantasy.  So 
engrossed  was  he  in  his  plans,  that  he  had  little  thought 
of  Lupa. 

She  went  about  her  work,  and  on  the  day  of  departure 
silently  took  her  wonted  seat  among  the  impedimenta. 


,  ■ 


Pa 

Q 

2; 


5   I 


The  She-Wolf's  Litter  55 

Seeing  her  in  the  baggage  train  Cassar  sent  a  centurion 
commanding  her  to  descend. 

Running  to  him  and  throwing  herself  at  his  feet  she 
cried,  "Dost  thou  desert  me,  lord?" 

"Yea,  all  is  ended  between  us  twain!  Return  to  thy 
people,  as  I  too  return  to  mine, "  he  said,  rudely  casting 
her  from  him. 

"Nay,  good  my  lord,  desert  me  not  in  the  hour  of 
my  need,  for  no  longer  have  I  people.  Let  me  be  thy 
humblest  slave, "  she  besought  weeping  bitterly. 

"Begone!"  he  thundered  as  she  crept  to  him,  clinging 
to  his  feet,  "I  love  thee  not."  With  a  thrust  of  his 
sinewy  arm  he  felled  her  to  earth.  Seeing  that  she 
moved  not  he  left  her  for  dead,  mounted  his  horse,  and 
set  forth  on  the  long  southward  march  to  Rome. 

Lupa  still  lived,  however,  and,  tracking  the  remnant 
of  her  people,  she  sought  Bodnognatus  who  had  taken 
refuge  among  the  Morini,  a  race  so  savage  that  they 
scarce  resembled  human  beings.  Here  the  old  chieftain 
busied  himself  with  making  weapons  of  polished  flint 
for  the  warriors. 

In  his  rude  hovel  Lupa  gave  birth  to  twin  sons,  whom 
she  named  Julius  Romulus  and  Julius  Remus.  Like 
the  wolflings  of  Rome  they  sucked  savagery  from  the 
breast  of  their  mother,  who  nourished  their  fero- 
cious hatred  of  the  Romans  into  a  relentless  thirst  for 
revenge. 

It  fortuned,  when  they  were  some  three  years  of  age, 


56  Old  Belgium 

that  Ambiorix  came  to  the  Morini  seeking  their  aid; 
and  besought  Bodnognatus  to  provide  his  men  with 
formidable  stone  axes  in  barter  for  the  carcase  of  a 
great  Ardennsian  bear. 

Lupa,  seated  by  her  father's  side,  was  grinding  chips 
of  flint,  her  little  sons  playing  with  the  flying  fragments. 

Spell-bound  by  her  wild  beauty,  Ambiorix  glanced 
at  the  children  and  asked,  "Whose  are  these?" 

"Wolflings,  who  have  no  father,"  answered  Bodnog- 
natus bitterly. 

"Then,"  cried  the  chieftain,  "suffer  me,  O  Lupa, 
to  father  them." 

"I  thank  thee,  lord,"  she  replied,  "but  it  may  not 
be.    These  are  the  children  of  Caesar!" 

Unaffrighted  by  the  great  bear,  though  misdoubting 
the  creature  was  alive,  the  boys  grasped  their  grand- 
father's axes  and  attacked  the  tremendous  beast. 
Romulus  smote  it  grievously  upon  the  snout  and 
laughed  gleefully  as  the  blood  gushed  forth;  and  Remus, 
leaping  upon  the  carcase,  hacked  the  shaggy  neck  until 
he  all  but  clove  the  head  from  the  body. 

Ambiorix  laughingly  upbore  a  child  on  either  arm 
exclaiming,  "One  day  ye  too  shall  slay  your  monsters ! " 

1 '  Yea, "  replied  Lupa, ' :  my  sons  shall  be  my  avengers. ' ' 

Despite  her  bitter  hatred  Lupa  cherished  her  wrongs 
secretly  until  a  day  came,  after  the  death  of  her  father, 
when  she  could  openly  undertake  her  vengeance. 

Southward,  past  Cortoriacum,  through  the  desolated 


The  She-Wolf's  Litter  57 

country  of  the  Nervii,  to  the  blackened  walls  of  Turna- 
cum  she  journeyed  with  her  twin  sons. x 

Crossing  the  Scaldis  at  a  ford  where  Caesar  had 
fought  his  bloodiest  battle  they  descried  numberless 
bones  of  their  countrymen,  and  an  immense  mound, 
the  ashes  of  cremated  Roman  soldiers. 

Groping  in  the  dust  with  eager  fingers  Lupa  found 
two  corroded  swords,  which  she  sharpened  carefully  on 
stones  and  gave  to  her  sons. 

Crossing  the  high  lands,  following  the  sinuous  Isara 
till  they  came  upon  Augustomagnus  in  the  country 
of  the  Sylvanectes,  they  avoided  towns  and  villages 
of  the  Romanized  Gauls,  skulking  in  the  forest  by  day 
and  taking  to  the  road  by  night  for  fear  of  the  garrisons. 
But  .their  apprehensions  were  groundless,  for  the  Gauls 
were  reaping  the  fruits  of  their  surrender  and  all  was 
peace. 

At  Lutetia  Parisiorum,  the  island  fortress  of  the 
Parish"  (the  Cite  of  Paris),  so  safely  locked  in  the  arms 
of  the  swift  Sequana,  they  rested  a  few  days.  The 
Romans  had  not  yet  built  the  thermae  and  amphitheatre 
whose  ruins  are  still  preserved  in  the  heart  of  the 
French  capital,  and  Irmunsul  was  worshipped  where 
Notre  Dame  now  lifts  her  towers. 

On  through  central  Gaul  the  good  Roman  roads,  to 
"the    Province"    (Provence),    where    cities,    such    as 

*  Cortoriacum,  the  modern  Courtrai;  Turnacum,  Toumai;  Scaldis 
the  Scheldt;  Isara,  the  Oise. 


58  Old  Belgium 

Nemausus  and  Arleate  gleaming  with  temples,  baths, 
and  basilicas,  were  passed  so  frequently  that  they  ceased 
to  fear  them,  and  only  wondered  whether  Rome  could 
be  more  glorious.  But,  though  she  plodded  per- 
sistently on,  the  strength  of  Lupa  began  to  fail,  and  they 
rested  long  at  Massilia  by  the  sapphire  Tyrrhenian  sea. 
Here  the  youths  learned  provincial  Latin  and  donned 
Roman  garb.  To  all  inquiries  they  answered  that  they 
sought  Caesar. 

Thus  came  they  in  early  spring  to  the  Saxa  Rubra 
on  the  outskirts  of  Rome.  At  sight  of  its  templed  hills 
Lupa  revived  for  a  brief  moment,  but  her  strength  soon 
fled.  Consumed  by  burning  fever  and  wasted  with 
exhaustion,  she  sank  upon  the  broad  highway. 

Tenderly  her  sons  bore  her  to  a  deserted  hovel  and 
laid  her  upon  a  bed  of  cypress  boughs.  Broken  with 
grief,  they  saw  that  the  end  was  approaching. 

In  her  delirium  she  chanted  a  little  song: 

The  wolf  that  hath  slaked  its  thirst  will  flee. 

His  shadow  flits  o'er  the  moonlit  snow. 
Never  the  blood-drained  lamb  shall  see 

His  lambent  eyes  in  the  darkness  glow. 

She  imagined  herself  back  in  the  halcyon  days  of 
her  first  meeting  with  Caesar,  when  he  had  deemed  her 
a  water  nymph,  and  piteously  she  entreated  her  lover 
to  come  to  her  and  disport  in  the  cool  waters. 

Why  did  he  not  answer  to  her  call?     Her  fingers 


^St\  —    «'*i 

*£R*%&\           * 

m^w^di  r<      s" 

gain        t 

mm      t 

ffl&T  I 

sk^ 

"  ^"5 

< 

Clovis 


"  Long  flaxen  braids  fell  from  beneath  his  helmet  " 

Musee  de  Saint-Germain.     Statue  by  Fr6miet.     Permission  of  Neurdein 


The  She-Wolf's  Litter  59 

strung  an  invisible  bow.  Did  he  not  see?  The  thrush 
lay  at  his  feet,  transfixed  by  her  crystal  pointed 
arrow. 

She  fell  into  a  troubled  slumber.  When  she  awoke 
they  deemed  her  conscious.  Loosening  the  eagle-brooch 
at  her  breast,  she  placed  it  in  the  hand  of  Romulus. 
"Take  it  to  Cassar, "  she  commanded;  "when  he  sees 
the  token  he  will  come." 

The  youth's  eyes  were  wet.  "If  he  come,  all  shall 
be  forgotten,"  he  said,  and  hastened  away. 

A  goat-herd  paused  near  the  hovel,  his  flock  bleating 
and  tinkling  their  bells*.  Lupa  moaned  in  her  fever; 
"My  goat  has  returned.  Wolf  King,  thou  shalt  have 
curds,  and  milk  to  slake  thy  thirst. " 

Remus  brought  her  a  bowl  of  milk,  holding  it  lovingly 
to  her  parched  lips.  She  sipped  a  little  and  he  set 
the  bowl  down  beside  her.  Following  him  into  the 
hut,  a  kid  lapped  the  milk. 

Lupa  heard  the  sound  and  laughed.  "My  kid 
has  returned!"  The  little  creature  nestled  within  her 
arms  licking  her  cheek.  She  slept  peacefully  till 
Romulus   entered. 

The  youth  eyed  his  mother  anxiously,  then,  address- 
ing his  brother:  "I  sought  Caesar  at  his  villa  and  gave 
him  the  brooch.  '  'Tis  mine,'  he  said;  'how  earnest 
thou  by  it?'  '  'Tis  a  token  from  Lupa,'  I  answered. 
'She  would  fain  see  thee  ere  she  dies. '  '  Lupa  ? '  he  ques- 
tioned.   'Ne'er  knew  I  such  a  name.     Boy,  thou  didst 


60  Old  Belgium 

filch  my  brooch!  Get  thee  gone,  ere  I  give  thee  to 
torture.'     Thus  spake  the  Wolf  King." 

"  The  Wolf  King  "  echoed  Lupa;  "meseems  that  once 
I  knew  that  name.  Would  that  I  might  forget.  'Tis 
by  forgetting,  those  forgotten  live."  She  lapsed  into 
unconsciousness  while  her  sons  silently  waited. 

After  a  space,  she  opened  her  eyes  in  delirious 
wonderment.  "My  Wolf  King,  thou  art  come  at  last! 
Thou  couldst  not  come  ere  this,  but  thou  wast  true. 
Engird  me  with  thy  great  protecting  arms.  Caress 
my  fragile  face,  wasted  with  waiting,  loving  thee  alway 
through  long,  lonely  nights,  waiting  the  coming  of  the 
winged  whales.     My  Wolf  King!" 

She  gasped  for  breath  while  the  boys  tremblingly 
ministered  to  her. 

Then  she  smiled,  though  her  eyes  were  closed.  "I 
feel  thy  tears  upon  my  face  and  know  I  die.  Thy 
mantle  is  about  me.  'Twill  fold  me  close  in  the  cold 
grave.     Caesar,  my  Wolf  King,  thou  didst  come!" 

Up  rose  he,  Iulius  the  conquerour, 

By  wisdom,  manhode,  and  by  greet  labour, 

Till  he  unto  the  Capitolie  wente 

Upon  a  day,  as  he  was  wont  to  goon, 

And  in  the  Capitole  anon  him  hente 

This  false  Brutus,  and  his  othere  foon, 

And  stikede  him  with  bodekinnes  anoon 

With  many  a  wound,  and  thus  they  lete  him  lye; 

But  never  gronte  he  at  no  stroke  but  oon, 

Or  elles  at  two,  but  if  his  stone  lye. 

Chaucer,  The  Monke's  Tale, 


The  She- Wolf's  Litter  61 

Rome  was  in  a  tumult.  Slaves,  plebeians,  warriors, 
patricians  all — a  turbulent  mob  swarmed  to  the  senate- 
house  with  the  muttering  of  a  mighty  earthquake. 

"We  seek  Caesar,"  said  the  youths,  to  a  passer-by. 

"Then  follow  me,"  he  replied,  without  slackening 
his  pace. 

Women,  dragging  children,  wailed  and  tore  their 
hair  as  they  joined  in  the  mad  race. 

"Why  this  riot  and  commotion?"  asked  the  sons  of 
Lupa. 

"Know  ye  not,  strangers,"  tfre  other  answered,  "that 
Caesar  hath  been  assassinated?" 

Flinging  his  arms  in  the  air  with  a  gesture  of  despair, 
Remus  exclaimed:  "Alas!  we  have  come  too  late!" 

"Nay,"  replied  his  brother,  "we  may  still  bear  our 
message  to  the  heart  of  Caesar." 

Within  the  colonnade  of  the  senate-house,  where 
all  might  view,  guarded  by  a  century  of  his  Gallic 
legionaries,  stood  the  garlanded  catafalque.  As  the 
youths  paused  upon  the  steps  Mark  Antony  drew 
gently  back  from  his  serene  face  the  very  mantle  which 
Caesar  had  thrown  protectingly  about  their  mother. 

There  is  a  majesty  in  death,  and  the  sons  of  Lupa 
bowed  their  heads  as  they  looked  upon  the  face  of  their 
father.  His  placid  countenance,  pallid  as  though 
chiselled  from  ivory,  unscathed  by  the  daggers  of  his 
murderers,  showed  more  of  dignity  than  in  life. 

In  mingled  awe  and  wonder,  they  gazed  for  a  moment, 


62  Old  Belgium 

then,  silently  stealing  away,  were  lost  in  the  throng, 
never  more  to  be  seen  in  the  city  of  their  father. 

That  night  the  guards,  aroused  by  the  howling  of  a 
wolf,  ran  hither  and  thither,  but  saw  neither  beast  nor 
man. 

At  dawn,  preparing  the  body  for  the  pyre,  they 
found,  driven  to  the  heart,  two  rusted  swords. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  LILY  AND  THE  BEE :    A  MEROVINGIAN  ROMANCE 

Rondel 

All  in  a  garden  of  peace  garnered  gloome, 
Elusive,  calme,  sequestered  from  alle  care 
Blossomed,  unseene  and  lone,  a  lilie  fayre, 
Filling  the  live-long  daye  with  rare  perfume. 

Sounding  a  rousing  lay  with  rumbly  boom 
On  boisterous  wing  a  bee  descended  ther: 
Alle  in  a  garden  of  peace-garnered  gloome, 
Elusive,  calme,  sequestered  frome  alle  care. 

Lapping  the  swete  abondance  of  her  bloome, 
Upon  this  looting  rogue  to  hys  despaire, 
She  shut  the  petalled  portalles  of  her  laire 
And  prisonned  him  within  a  livyng  tombe 
Alle  in  a  garden  of  peace-garnered  gloome 
Elusive,  calme,  sequestered  from  alle  care. 


P 


HOW  THE  LILY  PRISONED  THE  BEE 

RATE  not  to  me  of  thy  religion,"  said  Clovis,  King 
of  the  Belgae  to  Archbishop  Remi.1     "I  bring 


1  Remi,  missionary  to  the  Gauls,  sainted  in  after  time  for  converting 
the  Franks  to  Christianity. 

63 


64  Old  Belgium 

thee  the  fragments  of  thine  altar  vase  which  my 
unruly  chieftain  shattered,  in  punishment  whereof  and 
in  proof  of  my  love  for  thee  I  brained  the  scoundrel  with 
my  battle-axe." 

"That,  sire,  doth  suffice  as  proof  of  thy  good-will," 
replied  the  archbishop;  "but  still  cherish  I  the  hope 
that  one  day  I  may  win  thee  to  the  true  faith." 

"Nay,  Remi,  never  shall  a  Merovingian  renounce  his 
religion  for  that  of  a  stranger.  Are  we  not  content 
with  our  Druids,  our  war-god  Beltane  and  his  invincible 
might?  We  ask  naught  of  the  Romans,  least  of  all 
their  religion." 

The  old  man  regarded  the  younger  with  wistfulness 
which  bespoke  an  affection  more  than  paternal.  "We 
give  thee  without  thy  asking  our  love  and  our  gratitude. 
Is  not  the  armour  which  thou  wearest  the  same  which 
thy  grandfather  Merovee  donned  when  he  fought  side 
by  side  with  the  Romans  against  the  Huns?" 

Clovis  flushed,  for  he  was  clad  from  head  to  foot 
in  Roman  armour.  His  long  flaxen  braids  fell  from 
beneath  a  helmet  surmounted  by  a  golden  lark  with 
outstretched  wings,  the  symbol  of  the  Alauna1  which 
an  ancestor  had  commanded;  an  inlaid  cuirass  pro- 
tected his  stalwart  torso,  his  greaves  and  sword 
were  of  Italian  workmanship;  from  his  shoulders 
swept   in  sumptuous  folds   a  sable  mantle;  alone  a 

1  The  Alauna  was  a  Gallic  legion  founded  by  Caesar,  so  named  from 
the  swiftness  of  its  flight. 


The  Lily  and  the  Bee  65 

heavy  gold  armlet   and   his   battle-axe   bespoke  the 
Frank. 

Say  we  further  that  mind  and  body  were  a  like  blend 
of  savagery  and  generous  impulses,  of  natural  courtesy 
and  barbaric  rudeness,  of  activity  of  mind  and  body, 
and  a  haughty  disinclination  to  budge  at  the  command 
of  another.  His  blue  eyes  were  childlike  and  winsome, 
his  smile  so  engaging  you  felt  him  an  angel  of  gentleness, 
but  lips  could  snarl  and  eyes  grow  dark  upon  occasion 
with  a  fury  uncontrollable  and  often  quickly  repented. 

Add  that  he  was  fully  determined  to  possess  the 
best  the  world  contained;  that  his  ignorance  was  un- 
bounded, that  his  self-esteem  equalled  his  ignorance, 
that  his  good  fortune  excelled  his  presumption,  and  we 
have  a  fair  picture  of  Clovis  at  the  glorious  age  of 
nineteen. 

He  had  felt  in  Remi  the  attraction  of  an  opposite 
nature;  the  priest's  allusion  to  the  exploits  of  Merovee 
flattered  his  pride  and  he  replied  impulsively:  "Even 
so  would  I  fight  for  thee.  Friendship  and  alliance  I 
promise;  in  proof  thereof  have  I  come  to  seek  of  thee 
a  wife!" 

"Wouldst  marry,  sire,  and  with  what  manner  of 
maiden?" 

"Beautiful  she  must  be,  the  most  excellent  of  all 
Christian  princesses,  as  befits  the  bride  of  Clovis." 

"Gratias  Domini!    Verily  thou  art  not  so  unrecon- 
ciled to  my  creed  as  thou  wouldst  have  me  think." 
1 


66  Old  Belgium 

"She  shall  set  up  her  images  beside  mine  own,  and 
we  will  each  worship  our  separate  gods  after  our  own 
fashion." 

"Nay,"  mused  Remi,  "can  two  walk  the  path  of 
life  save  they  be  of  the  same  faith?" 

"Tell  me,"  continued  Clovis,  "who  is  the  most 
virtuous  and  desirable  lady  in  all  Christendom?" 

A  youthful  scribe  at  a  lectern  near  by,  dropping  his 
quill,  drew  a  quick  sibilant  breath. 

Clovis  threw  him  an  angry  look.  "Why  snortest 
thou  thus,  dolt?  Hath  over-much  stooping  given  thee 
the  croup?" 

"Thy  pardon,  gentle  monarch,"  murmured  the 
trembling  youth,  "I  marvelled  that  thou  didst  utter  the 
very  words  that  Alaric,  King  of  the  Visigoths,  spake  to 
me  of  late." 

"A  mighty  chieftain,"  said  Clovis,  "whom  I  shall 
surely  slay  when  we  come  to  grips  as  to  which  of  us 
be  ruler  of  Gaul.  But  what  spakest  thou?  Hath 
Alaric  set  forth  upon  the  wife  hunt?" 

The  scribe  smiled  knowingly.  "It  needs  him  not  to 
hunt,  sire.  The  Emperor  Theoderic  hath  hounded 
him  sore  in  chase  of  a  son-in-law." 

"  My  scribe  Aurelian  can  certify  thee,  sire,  of  all  that 
thou  wouldst  know,"  said  Remi.  "In  good  repute  is 
he  in  the  courts  of  princes." 

"Marry  then,"  asked  Clovis,  "is  the  daughter  of 
Theoderic  such  a  paragon  of  the  virtues?" 


The  Lily  and  the  Bee  67 

"That  is  she;  noble  beyond  the  comfort  of  a  husband 
who  would  have  dominion  in  his  own  house,  o'ergood 
to  be  a  merry  companion,  shrewishwise,  within  the 
limits  of  a  woman's  capacity,  but  scarce  comely  or  o'er 
youthful.  Alaric  is  therefore  in  two  minds  betwixt 
the  heiress  to  the  Roman  Empire  and  beauteous 
Clotilde  of  Burgundy." 

"Not  thus  would  I  waver  'twixt  birth  and  beauty, 
for  Queen  can  I  create  my  wife,  whereas  the  gods  alone 
can  make  her  fair.  Tell  me,  Remi,"  he  asked,  returning 
to  the  archbishop,  "of  these  two  apples  which  shall 
I  pluck,  the  sweet  or  the  sour?" 

His  grace  was  manifestly  taken  aback  by  this  au- 
dacity. It  was  on  his  lip  to  reply,  "Which  e'er  thou 
wilt,"  but  reflecting  a  moment  he  rejoined  more  tact- 
fully :  "  Princess  Clotilde  is  of  thine  own  race ;  speaking 
a  common  tongue,  ye  should  enjoy  much  together  both 
in  the  wont  of  courts  and  the  learning  of  the  schools 
since  she  hath  been  nobly  nurtured." 

"  I  could  stomach  even  her  wisdom,  were  she  sufficient 
seemly,"  laughed  Clovis. 

"She  is  indeed  'lilium  inter  spinas"'  replied  Remi, 
"of  all  living  women  most  misfortunate." 

"Resolve  me  this  riddle,"  thundered  the  bepuzzled 
monarch. 

Whereupon  Remi,  engrossing  with  elaborate  detail 
after  the  manner  of  the  chroniclers  of  his  period,  re- 
counted how  her  father,  King  Chilperic  of  Burgundy, 


68  Old  Belgium 

had  been  murdered  by  his  unnatural  brother  Gonde- 
baud;  how  the  latter  had  also  slain  her  two  brothers, 
and  thrown  their  mother,  a  stone  about  her  neck,  into 
the  Rhone.  Gondebaud  had  not  dared  to  make  way 
with  the  Princess  Clotilde,  for  all  Burgundy  was  most 
loyally  affected  to  her;  nor  would  this  further  crime 
have  assured  his  accession.  The  Grand  Council 
winked  at  the  murder  of  the  tyrant  Chilperic,  but  would 
ne'er  have  brooked  usurpation  of  the  throne  by  so 
despicable  a  creature  as  Gondebaud. 

Pretending  that  he  ruled  but  in  her  name,  until 
such  time  as  she  should  wed  with  some  great  prince, 
he  cloistered  Clotilde  in  a  convent  at  Geneva  and 
assumed  the  reins  of  government. 

"Enough  of  this  idle  tale-telling,"  ejaculated  Clovis. 
"Let  us,  without  ado  to  the  core  of  the  nut.  Since 
she  is  held  at  auction,  Remi,  get  thee  instantly  to  Cha- 
lon,  outbid  all  others,  and  fetch  me  back  the  baggage!" 

"But  this  Gondebaud,  gentle  monarch,  is  not  the 
man  to  wed  his  niece  to  a  powerful  sovereign  like  thyself 
who  might  wrest  from  him  the  kingdom!" 

"I  count  not  Gondebaud  of  more  worth  than  filthy 
vermin,"  replied  Clovis. 

"But  there  is  one,"  observed  Remi,  "who  might 
be  taken  into  account — the  Princess  Clotilde!" 

"She  must  needs  be  overjoyed, "  confidently  affirmed 
the  other,  "for  in  rank  and  prowess  there  is  none  mine 
equal  in  all  Christendom.    Send  thou  Aurelian  to  the 


The  Lily  and  the  Bee  69 

Princess,  and  bid  him  tell  her  she  shall  be  Empress 
not  of  Belgica  alone  but  of  all  Gaul." 

"'Tis  a  proud  boast,  sire,"  answered  Remi,  "which 
I  doubt  not  thou  wilt  fulfil;  but  her  religion  may " 

"What  boots  a  paltry  thing  like  religion  to  pit  itself 
against  my  will?" 

The  good  archbishop  threw  up  his  hands  in  despair 
as  Clovis  departed. 

"Were  it  seemly,  Reverend  Father  in  God,"  asked 
Aurelian,  "to  abet  this  braggart  in  despoiling  so  fair  a 
flower?" 

Remi  smiled  benignly.  "  Once  in  the  cloister  garden 
I  saw  a  lily  open  her  heart  to  a  bee;  but  ere  he  sipped 
the  nectar  from  her  chalice — closing  her  petals  about 
him  she  made  captive  her  would-be  captor!" 

II 

ALL  IN  A  GARDEN 

To  Geneva  wended  Aurelian  in  the  guise  of  a  pilgrim 
questing  Rome. 

With  him  Clovis  sent  a  young  Frankish  chieftain 
to  judge  the  beauty  of  Clotilde  before  presenting  the 
offer  of  his  sovereign,  for  in  this  youth's  opinion  Clovis 
placed  implicit  confidence,  since  it  had  ever  coincided 
with  his  own. 

At  the  gate  of  the  convent  where  Clotilde  was 
sequestered  was  a  hospice,  designed  for  such  travelling 


70  Old  Belgium 

gentry,  and  here  Aurelian  and  his  companion  took  up 
their  lodging.  It  was  but  a  mean  shelter;  its  sole 
furnishing  two  pallets,  a  table,  some  wooden  trenchers, 
a  loaf  of  stale  bread,  and  a  jug  of  water.  Having  stabled 
their  horses  back  of  the  hut  the  Frank  brought  in  their 
packs  and  looked  about  him  contemptuously. 

"A  pretty  hostelry, "  he  cried,  "in  which  to  entertain 
ambassadors  from  King  Clovis!" 

"None  would  suspect  us  here,"  replied  Aurelian. 
"Moreover  'tis  the  only  spot  where  we  may  have  speech 
with  Princess  Clotilde,  for  eve  and  morn  she  cometh 
hither  to  wash  the  feet  of  pilgrims." 

As  he  spoke  chimed  forth  the  angelus,  as  a  troop 
of  aged  paupers  hobbled  painfully  to  a  chapel  at  the 
convent  gate  and  knelt  before  a  shrine  of  the  Virgin. 
Aurelian  entered,  but  his  companion  stood  with  folded 
arms  outside  the  door  regarding  the  mendicants  with 
contempt. 

Presently  the  gates  were  opened  and  headed  by  the 
Abbess  a  procession  of  white-robed  nuns  filed  into  the 
chapel.  With  fringed  lashes  drooping  o'er  her  wan 
cheeks  and  rose-bud  mouth  down-drawn  like  that  of  a 
grieved  child,  last  of  all  came  the  Princess  bearing  a 
ewer  of  water. 

The  high-keyed  voices  of  the  nuns  died  in  a  hush  of 
prayer.  The  throng  of  beggars  issued  forth  and, 
receiving  alms  from  the  Abbess,  clattered  away.  The 
nuns,  chanting  a  recessional,  were  swallowed  in  the 


C     = 


"  An  ancient  fortified  gate  " 


Twin  Towers  of  the  "  Rabot,"  Ghent 

From  Album  Historique  de  la  Belgique,  by  H.  Van  der  Linden  and  H.  Obreen 
Reproduced  by  permission  of  G.  Van  Oest  &  Company 


The  Lily  and  the  Bee  71 

gloomy  convent  and  Princess  Clotilde  alone  remained 
at  the  chapel  door. 

Beseeching  the  pilgrim's  boon  with  bowed  head, 
Aurelian  knelt  before  her  and  loosed  his  sandals.  As 
Clotilde,  pouring  water  from  her  ewer  upon  his  dusty 
feet,  dried  them  gently  with  a  linen  cloth  Aurelian 
pressed  a  letter  into  her  hand. 

The  Princess  turned  away  and  walked  slowly  toward 
the  convent.  Observing  the  strange  youth  she  asked: 
"Art  thou  too  a  pilgrim?" 

"In  a  sort,"  he  replied,  and  she  knelt  before  him, 
striving  to  remove  his  sandals. 

Rudely  he  raised  her  to  her  feet.  "Never  shalt 
thou  perform  for  me  such  vile  and  degrading  service." 
Then,  as  she  winced  under  his  grasp — crying,  "Brute 
that  I  am!  Have  I  hurt  thy  fair  hands?"  he  covered 
them  with  kisses. 

"In  the  name  of  Christ  no  service  is  unworthy," 
she  answered  meekly,  shrinking  from  him  a  little,  but 
lingering  as  she  asked:  "How  art  thou  called  and  what 
thy  quest,  Sir  Pilgrim?" 

"I  am  called — since  I  have  seen  thee,  fair  lady, — 
Fortunatus.  Of  my  quest,  if  my  name  belie  me  not, 
thou  shalt  know  more  anon." 

But  as  in  wonderment  she  met  his  eyes  the 
sourfaced  Abbess  peered  from  behind  the  gate. 

"Of  a  surety,  lady,"  Aurelian  interjected,  "if  thou 
wilt  grant  audience  where  none  else  may  hear." 


72  Old  Belgium 

,  Clotilde  approached  the  Abbess  remarking :  "  The  pil- 
grims complain,  Reverend-Mother,  that  our  hospitality 
gives  them  naught  wherewith  to  appease  their  hunger." 

"Sister  Perfecta  shall  provide  them  with  bread,'* 
said  the  Abbess.  "Go  thou,  Clotilde,  to  the  garden 
and  gather  lilies  for  the  festival." 

Fortunatus,  who  had  overheard  this  command, 
turned  to  his  companion.  "I  climb  yon  hill,"  he  said, 
"  to  spy  where  lies  this  garden." 

"Softly  then,  beware,"  entreated  Aurelian,  "or  thou 
wilt  mar  all."  His  words  fell  on  unheeding  ears,  for 
Fortunatus  was  off  for  the  hill  without  further  ado. 

Beneath  him  the  convent  with  its  dependencies  lay 
spread  like  a  great  map.  Close  to  the  main  building 
and,  alas!  overlooked  by  its  windows,  huddled  the 
garden,  where  a  mauve-robed  novice  was  busily  culling 
flowers.  A  brook  divided  a  plantation  of  vegetables 
from  an  orchard  which  climbed  the  hill  to  the  wall, 
beyond  and  above  which  Fortunatus  stood. 

As  he  hesitated,  he  noted  that  his  mauve-robed 
lady  had  quitted  the  flower-garden  and  was  walking 
toward  the  brook,  to  seek  the  fleur-de-lys  which 
fringed  its  bank.  Climbing  a  tree,  he  let  himself 
down  into  the  orchard;  and,  throwing  himself  on  all 
fours,  crept  silently  toward  the  brook.  Not  so  warily, 
however,  but  Clotilde  spied  him  as  he  neared  her. 

"How  darest  thou  profane  these  sacred  precincts?" 
she  stammered.    But  at  that  instant,  a  swarm  of  bees, 


The  Lily  and  the  Bee  73 

attracted  by  the  flowers,  did  the  youth  a  good  turn 
by  frighting  the  Princess  toward  him.  Beating  the 
saucy  marauders  away  he  said  gallantly:  "Where 
blow  sweet  lilies  ever  come  the  bumblebees!" 

"A  flower  for  thy  flattery,"  said  Clotilde  as  she  gave 
him  a  lily,  "but  fly  fast  away,  O  Bee!" 

"But  first  tell  me,  I  pray  thee,  hast  thou  read  the 
letter?" 

"That  have  I,  and  thou  wilt  find  the  answer  when 
thou  returnest,  if  so  be  thy  teeth  are  strong.  Bear  it 
to  King  Clovis  without  delay,  nor  risk  thy  safety  by 
seeking  me  again." 

"But  by  all  the  gods  I  shall  see  thee.  What  hast 
thou  writ?     Wilt  thou  be  the  bride  of  Clovis?" 

"Let  him  demand  me  from  the  nation,  and  the 
nobles  will  accept  this  alliance.  Well  hast  thou  accom- 
plished thy  mission.  When  I  become  bride  of  Clovis 
he  shall  reward  thee.     Doth  not  that  suffice?" 

"Nay,  that  it  doth  not,"  he  cried,  leaping  the  brook 
and  clasping  her  in  his  arms.  "I  have  risked  death  to 
offer  thee  a  crown;  do  thou  reward  me,  0  my  Queen! 
They  say  I  am  like  to  Clovis;  bestow  upon  me,  in 
his  stead,  thy  troth-plight  kiss!" 

With  this  the  rogue  took  that  for  which  he  asked. 
For  a  moment  Clotilde  lay  swooning  in  his  arms. 
Then,  eluding  him,  with  eyes  flashing  indignation, 
cried:  "Darest  thou  thus  insult  the  betrothed  of 
Clovis!" 


74  Old  Belgium 

He  fell  at  her  feet  and  kissed  the  selvage  of  her 
robe.  "Forgiveness,  gracious  lady.  By  great  Bel- 
tane I  swear  that  henceforth  none  but  Clovis  shall 
even  touch  thy  hand." 

With  a  light  bound  he  cleared  the  orchard  wall, 
singing  as  he  went,  "Lily  Maid,  when  thou  art  his 
bride,  not  Clovis  but  Clotilde  shall  reward  me!" 

in 

THE  CHALICE 

Lik  moone-bemes  in  the  garden's  leafye  lace, 
Dartling  ther  silverne  rays  through  darkling  gloom 
Thy  smile;  and  straightway  alle  the  roome 
Floods  with  the  gladde  effulgence  of  thy  grace. 
I  clasped  thee  in  mine  armes  a  littel  space, 
And  sipped  the  chaliced  nectar  of  thy  bloome, 
Resistlesse,  cold  and  lifelesse  as  a  tomb, 
Til  alle  my  soule  was  drunk  with  love's  embrace. 

The  memory  of  thine  innocence  of  guile 
Lik  vague  rememboured  musick  hovers  nigh, 
Forever  fraughte  with  potency  of  paine. 
Come  thou,  bright  chalice  of  my  soul,  againe 
Out-poure  the  joyance  of  thy  wondrous  smile, 
Rapture  of  raptures,  thou  my  Deity ! 

Thus  (so  our  monkish  chronicler  would  strain  our 
credulity)  wrote  Fortunatus  on  his  return  from  Geneva, 
and  Clovis,  unconscious  of  any  l&se-majesti,  included 
the  presuming  youth  in  the  embassy  which  in  due  time 


The  Lily  and  the  Bee  75 

set  forth  from  Turnacum1  to  demand  the  hand  of  the 
Princess  from  the  Grand  Council  of  Burgundy  then  in 
session  at  Chalon-sur-Sa6ne. 

Whereat  the  Grand  Council,  having  but  lately 
despatched  an  envoy  to  Alaric  offering  Clotilde  as 
pledge  of  a  proposed  alliance,  found  itself  in  a  ticklish 
quandary.  All  preferred  the  Visigoth,  but  some  main- 
tained, since  he  could  not  be  depended  upon  with 
certitude,  it  were  wise  to  secure  the  friendship  of  the 
Franks. 

Gondebaud,  who  had  no  wish  that  his  niece  should 
wed  with  either,  since  her  marriage  would  put  an  end 
to  his  regency,  craftily  counselled  that  they  use  Clo- 
tilde as  bait  to  lure  Clovis  to  Chalon  while  awaiting 
word  from  Alaric. 

"But  if  Clovis  come,  and  Alaric  in  the  meantime 
consent?"  asked  the  Council. 

Gondebaud  smiled.  "We  will  stipulate  that  he  come 
in  peaceful  guise,  slenderly  attended.  A  wild  country 
lieth  between  us  and  Belgium  much  beset  with  bandits. 
With  the  alliance  of  the  Visigoth  we  need  not  stand 
in  awe  of  reprisal  from  the  Franks,  for  the  chance  death 
of  their  King." 

1  Turnacum  (Tournai)  at  this  time  capital  of  Belgium.  Here  was 
discovered  the  tomb  of  Chilperic,  father  of  Clovis,  containing  a  magnifi- 
cent robe  studded  with  three-hundred  golden  bees,  the  symbol  of  the 
Merovingian  dynasty.  Clovis  on  his  conversion  changed  this  device 
to  the  fleur-de-lys,  which  remained  the  symbol  of  France  until  the  time  of 
Napoleon,  who  during  his  reign  reinstated  the  more  ancient  bees. 


76  Old  Belgium 

The  Council  accordingly  promised  the  ambassadors 
of  Clovis,  should  their  sovereign  come  to  Chalon,  they 
would  agree  upon  the  terms  of  a  treaty  whereby 
Clotilde  should  become  his  Queen. 

Scenting  a  snare,  Fortunatus  replied  that  the  pro- 
posal did  not  accord  with  their  instructions,  since  Clovis 
had  delegated  him  to  sign  all  agreements  and  wed 
the  Princess  by  proxy. 

At  this  word  Gondebaud  eyed  the  young  man  sharply. 
"Yet  must  thou  needs  obtain  her  consent,"  he  said, 
clutching  his  chin  with  his  clawlike  hands. 

Fortunatus  smiled.  "Of  a  surety,"  he  replied  confi- 
dently; "wend  we  forthwith  to  Geneva  on  that  quest." 

Temporizing  adroitly,  while  secretly  plotting  to 
frustrate  this  design,  Gondebaud  ostensibly  yielded. 
Aurelian  was  overjoyed,  but  Fortunatus,  distrusting 
this  easy  victory,  would  have  preferred  an  open 
opposition  to  a  feigned  acquiescence. 

The  Council  stipulated  only  that  Clotilde  should  be 
brought  to  Chalon,  since  here  alone  was  it  seemly  that 
the  marriage  should  be  celebrated. 

It  being  thus  agreed,  escorted  by  a  troop  of  Bur- 
gundian  lancers,  and  bearing  rich  gifts  from  Clovis 
in  wagons  drawn  by  lowing,  milk-white  oxen,  capari- 
soned with  scarlet  tassels  and  tinkling  bells,  the  envoys 
set  leisurely  forth  in  search  of  the  Princess. 

Fortunatus,  however,  was  not  pleased  with  the 
hang-dog  bearing  of  their  captain,  whose  demeanour 


The  Lily  and  the  Bee  77 

seemed  to  conceal  something  of  evil.  This  premonition 
was  speedily  justified,  for  that  night,  while  the  Franks 
were  sleeping  at  a  mountain  hostelry,  the  Burgundians 
decamped  without  bidding  farewell. 

In  no  wise  discountenanced,  the  envoys  continued 
their  unruffled  course,  until,  of  a  sudden,  in  a  narrow, 
precipitous  pass,  they  were  set  upon  by  a  band  of 
masked  brigands. 

Barricading  the  road  with  their  cars  the  Franks 
let  loose  a  shower  of  bolts  from  their  crossbows.  But 
Fortunatus,  perceiving  himself  hopelessly  outnumbered, 
with  instant  resourcefulness,  unyoked  the  steers  and 
goaded  them  forward  against  the  onrushing  bandits. 

Furious  from  the  spear-thrusts,  the  formidable 
creatures  charged  through  their  ranks,  snorting,  bellow- 
ing, and  transfixing  the  horses  with  their  long  horns. 
Trampling  the  fallen  beneath  their  hoofs,  they  shoul- 
dered over  the  precipice  steeds  and  men  in  pahic- 
stricken  flight. 

The  envoys  fell  upon  the  remaining  brigands  and 
gave  them  such  unexpected  welcome  that  the  rascals 
betook  themselves  to  the  forest,  leaving  a  score  of 
their  comrades  maimed  or  dead  upon  the  field. 

Fortunatus,  after  his  wont,  now  set  about  giving 
succour  to  the  wounded  foes.  Washing  the  blood  from 
the  face  of  a  dying  man  disclosed  the  captain  of  the 
Burgundian  lancers.  Astonished  by  this  discovery 
he  cleansed  the  others  of  the  soot  with  which  their 


78  Old  Belgium 

features  were  besmirched  and  recognized  them  as 
members  of  the  troop. 

This  attack  confirmed  his  suspicions  of  the  treachery 
of  Gondebaud;  nor  was  Fortunatus  surprised  on 
arriving  in  Geneva  that  the  abbess,  who  had  doubtless 
received  her  orders,  refused  him  access  to  Clotilde. 

Leading  the  train  of  wagons  to  an  outlying  wood, 
in  order  that  the  Burgundians  might  think  he  had 
departed,  Fortunatus,  returning  at  nightfall,  sought 
the  orchard  where  he  last  held  converse  with  Clotilde. 
The  purlieus  of  the  convent  were  patrolled,  but  choosing 
a  moment  when  they  were  changing  guard  he  sur- 
mounted the  wall. 

Scarcely  had  he  let  himself  down  when  he  was  ware 
of  someone  stealing  toward  him  through  the  shadows. 
It  was  Clotilde  who  stood  like  a  white  lily  in  the  moon- 
light. "How  knewest  thou  that  I  was  here?"  ques- 
tioned Fortunatus. 

"I  dreamed  that  thou  hadst  come,"  she  said  as  he 
sprang  toward  her,  "but  can  I  trust  thee?" 

1 '  This  ring  hath  Remi  blessed. ' '  Then  placing  it  upon 
her  finger  he  said:  "Now  art  thou  bride  of  Clovis! 
Henceforth  will  I  guard  thee  for  him  with  my  life!" 

"By  our  Lady  of  Sorrows  I  swear  to  be  true,"  she 
murmured;  then  looking  up  suddenly  cried:  "Ware 
thee!    If  thou  lovest  me,  flee." 

Fortunatus  wheeled  instantly  about,  but  none  too 
soon,  for  a  black  thing  leapt  at  him  from  the  dark. 


The  Lily  and  the  Bee  79 

A  glittering  blade  flashed  in  the  moonlight  slicing  a 
wing  from  the  golden  lark  upon  his  helmet,  and  on  the 
hateful  face  so  close  to  his  own  he  recognized  the  hideous 
sneer  of  Gondebaud. 

Little  light  was  there  in  that  dim  place  for  proper 
sword-play,  nor  did  Gondebaud  confine  himself  to  rules, 
but  at  it  they  went  hack  and  parry,  thrust  and  guard, 
attacking,  evading,  pressing,  retiring,  bounding  for- 
ward again  raining  blows  from  every  quarter. 

The  glaive  of  Fortunatus  was  the  heavier  but  shorter. 
He  had  confined  himself  to  defence  until,  by  a  nasty 
feint,  Gondebaud  slipped  his  long  rapier  snake-like 
beneath  his  guard  and  bit  his  shoulder.  Then  the 
Frank  changed  his  weapon  to  his  left  hand  and  assumed 
the  offensive.  The  agility  of  youth  served  him  well. 
He  sprang  around  the  older  forcing  him  to  spin  till 
his  brain  reeled  dizzily,  finally  bringing  his  broad- 
sword down  with  such  force  that  the  parrying  blade 
snapped  and  flew  from  his  hand. 

Placing  his  foot  upon  the  part  nearer  the  hilt, 
Fortunatus  laughed  aloud.  Then,  as  Gondebaud 
turned  to  flee,  seized  and  flung  him  to  the  earth. 
"Shall  I  slay  him,"  he  asked  of  Clotilde,  "or  slit  his 
lying  tongue  with  his  own  sword?" 

"Nay,"  she  replied,  "but  prison  him  in  yonder 
tomb,  where  lieth  an  abbess  whose  spirit  waileth  by 
night." 

Thither  he  dragged  the  struggling  Gondebaud  and 


80  Old  Belgium 

gagged  him  with  the  veil  of  Clotilde.  Pinioning  his 
arms  stoutly  and  bestowing  upon  him  a  farewell  kick 
he  bolted  the  door  by  driving  the  broken  sword 
through  its  hasps. 

"And  now,"  he  cried,  pointing  to  the  convent  alive 
with  startled  lights,  "let  us  bestir  ourselves  to 
flight."  Gaining  the  top  of  the  wall  and  grasping  her 
wrists  he  swung  Clotilde  to  the  farther  side.  "Come, 
dearest  lady,"  he  besought,  "my  men  are  at  hand." 

Disposing  her,  snugly  lapped  by  soft  furs,  within  a 
car,  goading  the  sleepy  oxen  to  a  shambling  trot  and 
mounting  steed  beside,  Fortunatus  held  straight  to  the 
north. 

At  noon  of  the  following  day  they  paused  for  a  little 
rest.  Discerning  trace  of  wistfulness  upon  the  features 
of  Clotilde  he  asked,  "Dost  thou  regret?" 

"For  that  I  go  to  Clovis  in  such  beggar  guise;  having 
naught  but  this  poor  garment." 

"Here  is  bedizenment  fit  for  a  queen,"  Fortunatus 
replied,  displaying  a  robe  of  azure  Orient  silk,  adorned 
with  a  myriad  golden  bees. 

As  Clotilde  admired  the  magnificent  vesture  with 
open-eyed  wonder,  he  resumed:  "Even  as  a  bee  is 
my  master;  he  too  loveth  sweetness,  and  hath  hived 
rich  store  for  his  queen." 

Night  and  day  they  pursued  their  plodding  pace, 
Fortunatus  riding  near,  speaking  of  all  save  that  which 
lay  nearest  his  heart. 


The  Lily  and  the  Bee  81 

Clotilde  recounted  how  that  her  uncle  had  brought 
her  an  offer  of  marriage  from  the  King  of  the  Visigoths. 

"I  marvel  then  that  thou  didst  jilt  so  worshipful 
a  prince,"  he  commented." 

"But  I  have  ne'er  set  eyes  upon  this  Alaric!" 

"Hast  thou  then  acquaintance  with  Clovis?" 

"Yea,  in  some  wise,"  she  answered,  "for  thou  didst 
say  that  he  was  like  to  thee." 

"Not  Clovis  but  me  thou  lovest,"  he  exclaimed, 
his  eyes  aglow  with  longing. 

She  shrank  from  him,  sobbing,  shielding  her  face 
with  her  hands. 

"Thou  wouldst  wed  with  a  king,  alone,"  he  said 
bitterly. 

"Nay,  I  love  Clovis  not,  for  he  is  a  Druid." 

"Even  so  am  I,"  said  Fortunatus  moodily;  "is  it 
for  this  that  thou  dost  hate  me?" 

"Marry  I  hate  thee  not.  Tell  me  I  pray  of  this 
religion." 

"Indeed,"  he  replied,  "there  is  small  matter  to 
tell,  save  that  we  worship  Beltane,  a  mighty  god  of  war. 
We  wot  that  perchance  there  be  other  gods,  as  Mars, 
and  thy  Christ.  Him  will  we  propitiate  with  bloody 
sacrifice  and  burnt  offering." 

Clotilde  shuddered.  "How  little  thou  knowest 
Christ,"  and  patiently  she  expounded  the  passion 
of  the  Saviour. 

Fortunatus  listened  with  savage  indignation :    ' '  Those 


82  Old  Belgium 

damned  Romans  crucified  thy  God!"  he  cried.  "Had 
I  been  there  with  my  Franks,  merrily  would  I  have 
scattered  their  brains.  Why  prayest  thou  to  a  dead 
god?  My  Druid  divinities  live  for  ever.  The  Romans 
could  not  vanquish  my  fathers,  yet  they  killed  thy 
Christ.  I  pray  alone  to  living  gods  who  have  power 
to  aid." 

"But  Christ,  all  powerful,  is  risen  to  eternal  life!" 

"Rede  me  a  rune,"  he  besought  her,  "that  I  may  be 
triumphant  in  battle.  If  thy  god  doth  give  me  victory 
I  will  forswear  my  Druid  faith." 

Then  Clotilde  repeated  the  pater  noster,  which  by 
dint  of  tedious  effort  he  learned;  shouting  it  in  his 
sonorous  bass,  like  some  viking  drinking-song. 

Down  the  course  of  the  tawny,  turbulent  Rhone  they 
journeyed,  crossing,  after  two  days  and  nights,  into  the 
valley  of  the  somnolent  Sa6ne  and  so  northward,  till,  at 
their  nearest  point  to  Chalon,  they  learned  that  a  party 
of  Burgundians  were  scouring  the  country  in  search  of 
them. 

"We  are  lost,"  cried  Clotilde.  "  Gondebaud  is  again 
at  large!" 

"  Nay,  we  will  trick  him  yet,"  cried  Fortunatus,  grasp- 
ing the  driver's  goad  and  lashing  the  steers  furiously. 

"  Belabour  not  the  brutes,"  besought  Clotilde.  "They 
cannot  mend  their  pace.  Rather  mount  me  on  a 
steed;  let  us  speed  forward  while  the  oxen  shamble 
in  the  ruck." 


The  Lily  and  the  Bee  83 

"It  groweth  chill,"  replied  Fortunatus.  "Sleep 
warm  this  night  within  the  cart.  At  dawn  thou 
shalt  take  horse." 

Through  the  black  night  they  lumbered,  urging 
the  oxen  till  they  broke  into  a  run.  Descending  into 
a  gorge  to  cross  a  ford,  affrighted  by  the  rushing  torrent 
Clotilde  uttered  a  shrill  scream.  The  oxen  balking  in 
mid-stream  refused  to  budge;  backing,  plunging,  kick- 
ing beneath  a  rain  of  blows  they  overturned  the  car. 

Leaping  into  the  stream  Fortunatus  bent  his  shoulder 
to  the  wheel  and  exerting  all  his  strength  righted  the 
wagon;  but  Clotilde,  extricated  from  the  tangle,  was 
caught  in  the  swirling  current  and  borne  suddenly  down 
the  stream.  Swimming  desperately  after  her  through 
the  rock-strewn  rapids  he  shouted  her  name  in  an  agony 
of  despair ;  but  there  was  no  reply ! 

A  few  short  strokes  and  he  reached  her.  Clasping 
his  powerful  arms  about  her  inert  form  he  bore  Clotilde 
to  the  bank. 

"Suffer  me  to  die,"  she  gasped.  "It  is  God's 
will." 

"But  it  is  my  will  that  thou  live!"  cried  Fortunatus, 
fervently  chafing  her  hands.  "Live,  beloved,  for  one 
who  loves  thee  beyond  life!" 

"Alas!"  she  murmured,  "for  that  I  love  thee  would 
I  die,  since  no  longer  can  I  endure  the  thought  of 
another ! ' 

"Ne'er  shall  I  bear  thee  to  the  arms  of  another,"  he 


84  Old  Belgium 

cried  straining  her  to  his  heart.  "Since  thou  lovest 
me,  neither  Clovis  nor  Death  shall  part  us!" 

Running  along  the  bank,  tortured  with  apprehension 
lest  their  loved  companions  had  been  lost  in  the  stream, 
sped  Aurelian  and  his  following. 

"She  is  safe!"  called  Fortunatus.  "Saddle  the 
steeds  for  we  ride  on  to  Rheims." 

Tearing  her  dripping  cloak  from  the  shoulders  of 
Clotilde,  he  flung  it  upon  a  rock  in  mid-stream.  "  Fol- 
low by  the  Marne.  If  ye  are  overtaken  by  the  Burgun- 
dians,  lead  them  to  this  rock,  show  the  cloak,  and  swear 
the  Princess  was  drowned." 

' '  That  shall  I  roundly, ' '  replied  Aurelian.  "  I  go  to  the 
carts  to  fetch  dry  garments  and  will  return  forthwith." 

"Why  go  we  still  to  Rheims?"  asked  Clotilde 
anxiously. 

"That  the  archbishop  may  wed  thee  to  me,  even  as 
he  would  have  wedded  thee  with  Clovis";  nor  did  she 
gainsay  her  lover. 

On  they  hastened  by  unfrequented  ways  through  vale 
and  forest,  baiting  at  lonely  garths  and  scattered  ham- 
lets. At  one  of  these  they  exchanged  the  spent  steed 
of  Clotilde  for  a  farm-horse,  less  swift  but  fresh  and 
strong. 

That  night  they  saw  the  camp-fires  of  the  Burgun- 
dians  and  took  no  rest.  At  morn  they  struck  into  a 
ravine  so  overhung  by  trees  that  it  was  a  secret  way; 
but  here,  descending  the  rocky  bed  of  the  dried  torrent, 


The  Lily  and  the  Bee  85 

the  horse  of  Fortunatus  stumbled  and  fell  with  a  broken 
neck. 

Mounting  the  horse  of  Clotilde  he  placed  her  be- 
hind him,  his  heart  beating  fast  beneath  her  girdling 
arms.  Emerging  from  the  sheltering  forest,  they 
traversed  a  desolate  moor,  at  the  marge  of  which  a 
mountain,  bleak  and  sinister,  merged  its  outline  in 
leaden  clouds.  Crescent  and  wan  the  westering  moon 
waned  on  the  dim  horizon.  Above  stars  were  glitter- 
ing faintly,  but,  save  for  their  tenuous  gleam,  all  was 
dread  and  darkness  upon  that  wild  interminable  plain. 

Easing  the  pace  of  his  tired  horse,  bending  his  course 
straight  to  the  belt  of  Orion,  Fortunatus  cheered  Clo- 
tilde with  fond  solicitude. 

"Fear  no  longer,  we  are  now  in  the  land  of  the  Franks, 
safe  from  all  foes,"  and,  pointing  to  a  light  like  a 
jewel  dropped  from  the  baldric  of  Orion,  he  said:  "Soon 
shalt  thou  rest,  Lily  Damsel;  peace  and  shelter  are  close 
at  hand." 

Out  of  the  drear  night  into  a  shepherd's  hut,  where 
leaped  a  joyous  fire,  he  led  the  wearied  Princess. 

In  the  borderland  between  dreaming  and  waking  Clo- 
tilde was  suddenly  surprised  by  a  strange  cry;  then  all 
was  silence  but  for  the  laboured  breathing  of  Fortuna- 
tus, lying  in  the  open  doorway.  The  fire  had  sunk  to 
embers,  without  the  sky  was  green  in  the  light  of  dawn. 

Suddenly  across  the  doorway  there  flitted  a  shadowy 
form!     Was  it  wolf  or  man?    Again   the  cry.     The 


86  Old  Belgium 

thing  rose  and  peered  into  the  hut,  leering  with  ghoulish 
eyes,  then  stealthily  slunk  away ! 

Clotilde  sprang  from  her  couch  and  ran  to  the  door. 
Fortunatus  leapt  to  his  feet.  Looking  across  the  moor 
they  discerned  menacing  shapes  skulking  toward  them 
in  the  dusk  from  every  direction.  Seizing  a  flaming 
brand  from  the  hearth  Fortunatus  plunged  into  the 
night,  Clotilde  close  upon  his  heels.  "Art  thou  mad," 
she  cried,  "thus  to  make  thyself  a  mark?" 

"Anon  they  shall  see  more  clearly,"  he  answered, 
tossing  the  firebrand  upon  the  thatched  roof,  which 
burst  into  instant  flame.  In  the  glare  of  the  burning 
hut  they  recognized  the  mysterious  shapes  as  a 
vanguard  of  Burgundians. 

Laughing  in  delight,  Fortunatus  shouted:  "Lo, 
Gondebaud,  I,  whom  you  seek,  am  here!" 

Riding  forward  at  this  challenge,  his  antagonist 
retorted:  "Thee  have  I  found  at  last,  with  thy 
shameless  paramour." 

Fortunatus  clenched  his  battle-axe.  "Cur,  thou 
liest,  she  is  the  bride  of  Clovis!" 

"Ah!  ha!"  sneered  Gondebaud,  "the  bait  hath 
trapped  the  fox?  Seize  him,  guards!  Clovis,  thou 
art  my  prisoner!" 

The  Burgundians  rushed  pell-mell  upon  him,  but  he 
cast  them  off  as  though  they  were  weasels.  Singly,  by 
twos,  and  by  fours  they  came,  grappling  his  knees 
as  he  hewed  them  down.     But  ever  his  relentless  battle- 


The  Lily  and  the  Bee  87 

axe  swung  flail-like  o'er  the  human  grain,  thrashing  its 
bloody  chaff  upon  the  field. 

Above  the  groans  of  the  dying  he  clamoured  this 
blasphemous  prayer : 

"'Pater  nosier  qui  es  in  cadis'1;  descend  I  pray  and 
aid  me  now!  ' Sanctificetur  nomen  tuum.'  Prove  thy- 
self a  living  god  and  I  will  worship  thee.  'Adveniat 
regnum  tuum.'  Let  my  soldiers  see  this  signal-fire 
and  speed  to  my  rescue.  'Fiat  voluntas  tua.'  Take 
that,  caitiff,  who  didst  think  to  get  me  from  behind. 
lPanem  nostram  quotidianum  da  nobis  hodie.1  Two  at 
a  single  stroke!  By  Beltane  'twas  not  so  ill!  I  per- 
ceive, O  wife  beloved,  thy  god  is  not  dead.  'Et  dimitte 
debita  nostra.'  Cling  not  to  mine  knees  lest  I  trample 
out  thy  life!  'sicut  et  nos  dimittiamus debitor ibus  nostris? 
Lay  on  Gondebaud,  thou  dastard!  A  score  of  thy 
cutthroats  have  I  sent  Hell- ward,  now  shall  I  deal  with 
thee!" 

Even  as  he  spake  a  thud  of  galloping  hoofs  broke 
upon  his  ear. 

'"Et  ne  nos  induces  in  tentationem"''  he  continued; 
while  Gondebaud  commanded:  "Yield,  dog,  my 
Burgundians  are  upon  thee!" 

"Fool,"  sneered  Clovis,  "these  be  my  Franks. 
Thou  art  trapped!  They  come,  my  Belgian  bees! 
Have  at  these  fleeing  rascals,  and  give  no  quarter! 
'Sed  libera  nos  de  malo.1  Burn  me  the  villages.  Set  all 
Burgundy  in  a  blaze!     'Et  gloria  tibi  in  scccula  scecu- 


88  Old  Belgium 

lorumV    Clotilde,  thy  god  hath  vanquished!    'Amen, 
amen.' " 

Gondebaud  realized  that  the  game  was  up,  for  the 
Franks,  drawn  by  the  blazing  beacon,  had  surrounded 
his  routed  Burgundians  with  a  ring  of  steel.  "I  yield 
me,"  he  muttered,  breaking  his  sword  upon  his  knee. 
"What  fate  hast  thou  in  store?" 

"Thy  fate  is  in  the  hands  of  the  Frankish  Queen," 
replied  Clovis  as  Clotilde  advanced  exultingly. 

"Hast  thou  my  marriage  contract?"  she  asked  of 
Clovis. 

"Behold,"  he  replied,  drawing  a  parchment  from 
his  tunic. 

1 '  Affix  thereto  thy  device, ' '  she  commanded.  ' '  Write 
with  thy  finger  dipped  in  blood!" 

"But  there  be  no  terms  inscribed  herein,"  protested 
Gondebaud. 

"Time  enough  for  them  when  we  reach  Rheims," 
Clotilde  replied.  "Go  then  and  thank  Our  Lady  of 
Mercy  that  thou  art  spared  thy  recreant  life!" 

"Lily  of  my  Heart,"  murmured  Clovis.  "Bespeed 
we  now  to  the  archbishop  and  after  to  Turnacum! 
There  shalt  thou  bloom  in  a  garden  of  garnered  peace, 
till  what  time  my  swarming  bees  shall  make  Lutetia 
the  hive  of  Belgium!" 


CHAPTER  III 


THE  SONS  OF  AYMON  AND  A  DAUGHTER  OF  CHARLEMAGNE 


"TMP,  devilkin,  child  of  Satan!"  shrieked  the  old 
*  woman.     "A  she-devil  bore  thee,  and  thy  mother 
before  thee." 

"Ha!  ha!"  taunted  the  boy  as  he  capered  mockingly 
just  out  of  reach  of  her  staff.  "She  who  is  my  own 
grandmother,  to  say  that  a  deviless  mothered  my 
mother!  Ha!  ha!  who  is  a  fiend  now,  petite  grand' - 
mere?" 

"Bring back  my  goat, "  wailed  the  old  woman  chang- 
ing her  tone  from  vituperation  to  entreaty.  "Dost 
thou  not  see  that  the  gentleman  painter  would  put  her 
in  his  picture,  and  thou  hast  frighted  her  away  to  the 
topmost  crag  of  the  cliff  where  I  cannot  follow? 
Bring  back  my  goat,  sweet  little  Yniol,  and  thou  shalt 
have  one  of  the  ginger-cakes  in  my  pocket,  one  of  the 
delicious  little  ginger-cakes  that  I  bought  at  the  fair 
on  the  f£te  of  St.  Reynault  a  year  agone.     I  have  still 

89 


90  Old  Belgium 

two  left,  and  they  are  not  over-hard  for  thy  young 
teeth." 

With  that  the  crone  drew,  from  some  recess  in  the 
depths  of  her  tatters,  a  strange  object  of  the  colour  of 
an  antique  oak  carving  and  the  consistency  of  concrete. 
Some  grotesque  from  an  ancient  abbey,  it  seemed,  for 
the  cake  had  been  cut  out  to  represent  a  horse-headed 
creature,  somewhat  resembling  a  dachshund,  bearing 
upon  its  abnormally  elongated  back  four  riders, — 
"plaque  dos  &  ventre." 

"They  are  the  quatrefils  d'Aymon, "  replied  the  crone 
in  answer  to  my  question. 

"And  their  horse  Bayard,"  added  Yniol,  snatching 
the  cake.  "Regard,  Monsieur,  and  Madame,  this  is 
the  horse  with  the  dried  currant  for  an  eye,  which  I 
bite  off  first,  for  fear  it  drop  out.  It  is  the  eye  which 
tells  you  that  this  end  is  the  head  and  not  the  tail." 

"For  five  sous,"  continued  the  old  woman,  "my 
good  little  grandson  will  show  Monsieur  the  print  of 
Bayard's  hoof  on  the  mountain  yonder,  which  he  made 
when  he  leaped  across  the  river  when  the  castle  was 
besieged.  But  the  cliff  is  too  steep  for  Madame,  and 
Monsieur  should  take  the  precaution  to  give  me  the 
five  sous  first." 

"No,  I  will  not  show  the  gentleman  the  hoof -print, 
but  I  will  show  him  the  sons.  First  Reynault  with  the 
tulip  in  his  hand;  the  colour  is  red  sugar  which  I  lick 
off.    The  second  son  is  Guichard,  he  without  a  nose, 


Legend  of  the  Sons  of  Aymon  91 

the  third  is  Adelard,  and  the  fourth — O  Grandmother ! 
Richard  hath  no  head,  fumble  in  thy  pocket  till  thou 
find  it  or  give  me  straightway  another  cake." 

"Why  should  I  give  thee  another  when  thou  hast 
already  eaten  the  better  part  of  this?  Ah!  rogue,  it  is 
thou  who  hast  but  now  broken  off  the  head  of  Richard. 
Thou  hast  it  in  the  palm  of  thy  hand,  cheat !  Away, 
bring  back  my  goat  or  I  beat  thee  with  my  staff." 

" Catch  me  first !"  piped  the  boy.  "Another  cake, 
Grandma,  or  I  fetch  not  down  the  goat." 

In  a  trice  the  young  scamp  was  on  the  summit  of 
the  citadel-crowned  crag  which  backs  the  town  of 
Dinant.  It  was  in  vain  that  his  grandam  gesticulated 
in  no  ambiguous  fashion;  he  replied  with  derisive  and 
obscene  gestures,  capering  wildly  and  fingering  an 
imaginary  flageolet,  whose  mouth-piece  was  adjusted 
to  his  nose.  Then,  having  caught  the  goat,  he  seated 
himself  upon  a  stone  and  calmly  awaited  our  terms 
of  capitulation. 

"I  will  paint  you  without  the  goat,"  the  artist  said 
to  M argot.  "  I  have  no  doubt  you  will  pose  much  more 
quietly,  and  perhaps  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  tell  me 
what  you  meant  by  saying  that  a  hoof-print  of  Bayard, 
the  enchanted  horse  of  the  four  sons  of  Aymon,  is  to  be 
found  on  the  cliff." 

"But  certainly,"  Margot  replied,  "everyone  knows 
that  it  was  there  they  lived,  in  a  great  castle  which  was 
besieged  by  Charlemagne.     All  four  would  have  been 


92  Old  Belgium 

burned  to  charcoal  but  for  their  horse  Bayard,  which  the 
Druid  Maugis  gave  them.  Ma  foi,  it  was  a  handy 
beast  for  a  large  family,  for  it  had  the  knack  of  lengthen- 
ing its  back,  like  an  accordion,  to  carry  double,  or 
quadruple  as  the  case  might  require.  I  doubt  not,  if 
Aymon  had  had  sixteen  sons  instead  of  four,  Bayard's 
back  would  have  stretched  without  cracking  until 
all  were  comfortably  seated.  Think  of  the  economy 
also  in  the  matter  of  feeding,  for  in  the  stable  he  pulled 
himself  together  again,  until  his  stomach  was  but  of 
a  one-horse  capacity.  He  won  in  all  the  races,  by  simply 
stretching  his  neck  till  his  nose  touched  the  finish,  while 
his  tail  had  not  left  the  starting  line.  Then,  as  for 
leaping, — regard  me  there  the  great  cleft  which  Charle- 
magne cut  in  the  cliff  with  his  sword,  and  how  Dinant 
lies  spread  between  the  foot  of  the  cliff  and  the  river. 
It  was  on  t'other  side  of  the  stream  that  Charlemagne's 
army  was  encamped,  for  angry  the  Emperor  was  that 
Reynault  should  have  dared  to  make  love  to  his 
daughter  Erembour;  but  over  cleft  and  town  and  river 
and  the  Emperor's  army  beside,  Bayard  leaped  with 
the  four  sons  of  Aymon  on  his  back,  as  easily  as  an 
ordinary  horse   would  jump  a  hurdle." 

11 1  have  read  somewhere, "  I  objected,  "  that  it  was  at 
Montauban  that  Charlemagne  besieged  the  four  sons 
of  Aymon  and  that  Reynault  wedded  Clarice,  daughter 
of  the  King  of  Aquitaine." 

"Ah!  if  one  gives  credence  to  the  lies  written  in  books 


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Legend  of  the  Sons  of  Aymon         93 

one  can  never  get  at  the  truth.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered 
at  that  other  peoples  should  claim  our  heroes,  but  it  is 
here  in  Belgium  that  Aymon  reigned  until  Charlemagne 
dethroned  him ;  and  it  was  here  in  his  castle  of  Dinant 
that  his  four  sons  were  born.  And  the  proof  of  it  is," 
Margot  continued  triumphantly,  "that  there,  on  our 
church  below  the  citadel,  is  the  tower  of  the  tulip-bud." 

"And  what  may  the  tulip-bud,  or  your  church  tower 
have  to  do  with  the  legend?"  I  asked  somewhat 
mystified. 

"An  unopened  tulip  was  the  flower  of  Erembour, 
the  daughter  of  Charlemagne  whom  Reynault  loved. 
He  wore  it  always  upon  his  helmet;  and,  when  he  died 
and  was  buried  in  Dinant,  it  shot  up  from  his  grave 
and  blossomed  in  our  beautiful  tower.  It  may  well  be 
that  the  sons  of  Aymon  had  a  castle  in  Montauban, 
or  where  you  will.  They  had  other  castles  here  in  the 
Ardennes,  at  Ambleve  and  at  Aigremont  near  Liege, 
which  fell  to  them  when  their  uncle  was  murdered.  The 
haute  noblesse  often  find  it  convenient  to  have  many 
strong-holds,  as  the  fox  has  many  dens;  but  when 
there  is  a  Madame  Fox  and  a  litter  of  pretty  cubs  in 
each — Oh!  la!  la!  that  is  not  so  convenient.  Never 
shall  I  believe  that  Reynault  had  other  wife  or  other  love 
than  Erembour. 

"A  monk  he  became  when  she  died,  building  churches 
everywhere  in  Belgium,  but  always  with  a  tulip-tower. 
So  famous  was  he  that  the  Germans  sent  for  him  to 


94  Old  Belgium 

build  the  Cathedral  of  Cologne;  but  the  supplanted 
architect  was  so  angry  that  he  incited  the  populace 
who  drowned  him  in  the  Rhine.  Saint  Reynault  he 
was  canonized,  with  the  architect's  T  square  and  a  tulip 
as  his  symbols,  as  is  written  in  the  story  which  I 
bought  at  the  kermess  with  the  gingerbread.  It 
ends  with  a  ballad,  a  very  old  ballad,  which  I  will  sing 
if  Monsieur  and  Madame  please." 

And  the  m&re  Margot  sang  in  her  high,  quavering 
voice,  in  French  so  archaic  that  it  was  difficult  to  follow, 
the  ballad  of 

BELLE  EREMBOUR 

Bele  Erembors  a  la  fenestre  au  jor, 
Sor  ses  genolz  tient  paile  de  colon, 
Voit  Frans  de  France  qui  repairent  de  cor 
E  voit  Reynaut  devant  el  premier  front 
En  haut  parole,  si  a  dit  sa  raison: 
"E!  Reynaut  amis!" 

"Amis  Reynaut  j'ai  veu  eel  jor" 
Se  passi  soiz  selon  mon  pere  tor, 
Dolans  fussiez  se  ne  parlasse  a  vos." 
"  Jel  mes  faistes,  fille  d'emperor, 
Autrui  amastes,  si  obliastes  nos." 
"E!  Reynaut  amis!" 

Li  cuens  Reynauz  est  montez  en  la  tor, 
Si  s'est  asis  en  un  lit  point  a  flors, 
De  joste  lui  se  siet  bele  Erembors; 
Lors  recomencent  lor  premires  amors 
"E!  Reynaut  amis!" 


Legend  of  the  Sons  of  Aymon         95 

Old  Margot  sang  also  the  song  of  Blanchefleur,  and 
later  brought  to  me  the  pamphlet  from  which  she 
had  learned  the  legend,  a  Chanson  de  geste,  written 
in  the  thirteenth  century  by  Huon  de  Villeneuve, 
printed  at  Antwerp  in  1619,  and  sold  today  at  the 
fairs  of  Belgium.  But  not  until  we  supplemented 
these  traditions  by  the  treasure-trove  of  the  monkish 
scribe,  looted  from  an  unknown  abbey,  were  we  able 
to  recognize  in  the  conflicting  legends  a  coherent 
narrative. 

Very  proud  are  the  Belgians  of  their  great  Em- 
peror Charlemagne,  a  pride  which  they  share  grudg- 
ingly with  Germany  and  France,  asserting  that 
Aix,  his  capital  and  best -loved  residence  was  at 
that  time  truly  a  Belgian  city;  but  less  disputed  and 
even  more  intense  is  their  pride  in  these  legendary 
heroes.  x 

11 

A  care-free  life  led  the  four  sons  of  Aymon  aloof  from 
the  world  in  the  donjon  of  Dinant  overfrowning  the 
slumbering  town  and  its  placid  river.  Spearing  wild 
boar  in  the  fastnesses  of  the  Ardennes,  flying  falcon 

1  M.  Paulin  Paris  has  established  the  fact  that  the  legend  of  the 
Quatre  Fils  d'Aymon  had  its  birth  in  Belgium  and  is  founded  upon 
"veritable  history  which  the  fancy  of  poets  has  rendered  somewhat 
difficult  to  discern."  The  French  version  of  the  adventures  of  the 
sons  is  closely  interwoven  with  those  of  Roland,  for  which  see  Romance 
of  the  Feudal  Chdteaux,  Chapter  II. 


96  Old  Belgium 

for  hare  and  heron,  and  tilting  at  the  quintain1  were 
their  favourite  diversions. 

Once  a  year  only  did  they  journey  beyond  the  boun- 
daries of  the  domain  of  Dinant,  northward  down  the 
valley,  to  Liege  for  a  joyous  fortnight  with  their  uncle 
the  Duke  of  Aigremont  at  the  famed  provincial  fair. 

Thither  flocked  the  entire  country-side  to  buy  and 
barter  horses  and  the  imperial  court  to  wager  princely 
stakes  upon  the  courses. 

It  was  the  wont  of  the  Emperor  Charlemagne  to 
honour  these  festivities  by  his  presence  and  disport 
himself  merrily  with  his  vassals,  vavasours,  and  boon 
companions.  Foremost  among  these  was  the  arch- 
bishop of  the  suzerain  see  of  Liege,  Turpin,  the  Privy 
Councillor  of  the  Emperor,  who,  though  a  man  of  the 
cloth,  loved  not  a  little  the  lusts  of  the  flesh  and  well 
knew  how  to  make  his  well-nigh  royal  palace  the 
scene  of  lavish  hospitality.  Here  he  entertained  the 
Emperor  and  a  goodly  following;  for  Charlemagne, 
passing  fond  of  ladies,  never  journeyed  without  his 
daughters,  and  brought  to  Liege  the  dainty  cavalcade. 

Fairest  of  all  was  the  Princess  Erembour,  sturdy 
and  regal  as  her  Thuringian  mother,  and  holding  in 
leash  a  love  of  adventure  by  a  will  as  indomitable 
as  that  of  her  Carlovingian  father. 

1  The  quintain,  a  manikin  which  gyrated  upon  a  pivot  and  if  struck 
unskilfully  banged  the  awkward  jouster  upon  the  back  with  a  bag  of 
sand. 


Legend  of  the  Sons  of  Aymon         97 

Seated  by  his  side  at  the  race-course  she  presented 
the  trophy  to  Reynault,  whose  fleet  steed,  Bayard, 
had  out-distanced  all  competitors;  and,  while  the 
concourse  rang  with  plaudits  for  the  mettlesome 
charger,  her  attention  was  fixed  upon  the  winsome 
rider  whose  eyes  met  hers  in  undisguised  admiration. 

It  fortuned,  one  evening,  that  Reynault  passed  her 
turret  and,  leaning  from  the  casement,  Erembour  threw 
him  a  crimson  tulip,  which  she  took  from  her  bosom. 
Reynault  caught  the  blossom  ere  it  reached  the  ground 
and,  looking  up,  met  the  eyes  of  Erembour.  Pressing 
the  flower  fervently  to  his  lips  he  halted  horse  and  said : 

"Princess,  is  this  kind  token  then  for  me?" 

"A  greeting  from  one  who  would  be  thy  friend," 
replied  Erembour  smiling,  then  swiftly  withdrew  from 
the  casement. 

Reynault  dismounted  and  climbed  the  stair. 

This  off-repeated  game  of  toss  and  catch  led  to  an 
adventure  which  set  the  court  a-gossip  and  still  lives  in 
the  Faietz  scandaleuses  of  the  Carlovingian  princesses. 
Were  the  flower  yellow  it  signified  to  Reynault:  "J 
love  you,  yet  be  discreet,  we  are  watched."  But  if 
the  flower  were  red  the  message  which  it  bore  was: 
"Come!" 

Boar-eyed,  with  snout-like  nose  and  thick  lips 
snarling  from  tusk-like  teeth,  Ganelon,  the  most  treach- 
erous of  Charlemagne's  nobles,  jealously  espied  this 
tossing  of  tulips  and  whetted  his  dagger. 


98  Old  Belgium 

One  frosty  night  when  livid  cloud-drifts  veiled  the 
moon,  Reynault,  the  red  flower  in  his  doublet  and 
Erembour's  kiss  warm  upon  his  lips,  descended  the 
spiral  stair-case  of  her  turret.  At  the  first  turning 
he  fell  headlong — struck  in  the  dark  by  the  dagger  of 
Ganelon. 

Erembour  heard  the  thud  of  his  fall,  the  slinking 
footsteps  of  the  assassin,  and  sprang  to  Reynault's 
side. 

"Fear  not,  beloved,  my  wound  is  not  mortal,"  so  he 
told  her  as  he  strove  to  rise.  "My  steed  stands  without. 
God!  if  I  could  but  reach  him!" 

Erembour  clasped  her  arms  about  her  lover  and 
staunched  his  wound  with  her  scarf,  but  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairway  he  sank  upon  her  breast.  "Thou  couldst 
not  pass  to  the  gateway  wert  thou  un wounded, "  she 
cried,  "for  see,  snow  has  fallen;  the  castle-court  is  one 
white  page  on  which  thy  footprints  would  write  the 
story  of  thy  visit  to  my  tower." 

"Nay,  nay,  what  doest  thou?"  he  protested,  as  lifting 
her  lover  like  a  helpless  child,  Erembour  bore  him 
resolutely  across  the  court. 

"Resist  not,"  she  laughed,  "for  I  am  passing  strong. 
I  could  bear  thee  in  spite  of  thy  struggling,  but  lighten 
my  task,  link  thine  arms  about  my  neck.  There,  that 
is  better.  Here  is  thy  charger.  Art  thou  yet  able 
to  ride?" 

"Of  a  surety,  dear  heart,"  insisted  Reynault,  "and 


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Legend  of  the  Sons  of  Aymon         99 

on  the  morrow  I  shall  return  to  crave  thee  of  thy  father 
as  my  bride." 

"Nay,  tarry  at  thy  uncle's  castle  till  thou  art  healed 
of  thy  hurt.  Fear  not  for  me.  My  tracks  upon  the 
snow  too  tiny  are  for  a  man's  foot.  They  will  tell  that 
it  was  I  alone  who  crossed  the  castle-court." 

All  might  have  gone  well  had  not  the  scene  been 
witnessed  by  one  on  whom  Erembour  had  not  reckoned. 
The  Emperor  had  eyed  this  little  episode  from  an  oriel 
overlooking  the  court,  and  stung  to  the  quick  he  as- 
sailed the  culprit  with  angry  denunciation  as  she 
re-entered  her  chamber.  Here  flint  met  flint.  Con- 
scious of  her  integrity,  Erembour  faced  her  father 
with  the  truth: 

"Naught  of  evil  hath  been  done.  Sooth  'tis  we  love 
but  in  all  honour,  and  my  betrothed  cometh  to  thee 
this  very  day  to  demand  me  in  wedlock!" 

"Who  is  this  man  of  honour  who  hath  so  cheapened 
thee?"  sneered  the  Emperor. 

Erembour  went  crimson,  but  not  with  guilt,  then 
flashed:  "His  name  thou  shalt  not  learn  until  thou 
swearest  that  he  shall  suffer  no  scathe  at  thy 
hands." 

The  Emperor  pondered.  Her  unflinching  gaze  told 
him  that  she  spoke  truth;  but  Charlemagne  was 
loath  to  admit  defeat.  "Let  him  come,"  he  muttered 
within  his  beard.  "No  deadlier  doom  could  a  culprit 
suffer  than  life  with  a  shrew  like  thee." 


ioo  Old  Belgium 

Erembour,  believing  her  cause  won,  laughing,  flung 
her  arms  about  his  neck. 

Meanwhile,  faint  with  loss  of  blood,  Reynault 
spurred  through  the  frosty  night  to  his  uncle's  castle. 

The  brawling  Meuse  beneath,  above  wind  wailing  in 
leafless  trees,  tattered  clouds  scudding  across  the 
moon — all  seemed  to  swirl  onward  with  him  in  ceaseless 
flight.  Anon  gaunt  arms  from  a  gnarled  yew  stretched 
clutching  fingers  as  he  hurtled  past.  Menacing  screams 
of  hidden  phantoms  shrilled  about  him,  and  relentlessly 
ever  his  distorted  shadow  pursued  him  like  a  malevolent 
wraith.  But  dinning  always  in  his  ear,  with  the  pelt 
of  galloping  hoof-beats,  the  rushing  stream  murmured 
the  plaintive  lament  of  Erembour:  "Why  must  the 
fast-fading  stars  so  soon,  love,  flee  in  the  dawning?" 
Then  consciousness  forsook  him  and  he  lurched  for- 
ward on  the  neck  of  his  tireless  courser.  Rocking 
him  gently  as  a  babe  in  cradle  the  loyal  Bay- 
ard bore  his  helpless  master  in  safety  at  last  to 
Aigremont. 

On  the  morrow  Ganelon,  not  Reynault,  came  to  the 
Emperor  and  demanded  the  hand  of  his  daughter. 
Charlemagne  regarded  him  with  cold  aversion. 

"I  say  not,"  he  thundered,  "  that  thou  art  the  man 
I  would  have  chosen  for  a  son,  but  fate  hath  put  beyond 
me  the  power  of  choice." 

Ganelon's  eyes  glittered  with  delight  as  he  realized 
that  Erembour  was  his  for  the  asking.     "The  sinner 


Legend  of  the  Sons  of  Aymon        101 

shall  atone  with  his  life,"  he  stammered  as  he  lipped 
the  Emperor's  hand. 

Charlemagne,  misinterpreting  his  words,  replied: 
"Even  so,  at  the  altar  alone  canst  thou  make  repara- 
tion and  vindicate  my  daughter's  good  name." 

"Most  gracious  sire,"  he  fawningly  protested,  "my 
life  shall  be  a  daily  rote  of  devotion  to  my  august  bene- 
factor. I  can  even  now  furnish  thee  with  an  earnest 
of  my  zeal.  Through  sore  travail  and  parlous  ventures 
have  I  unearthed  a  foul  conspiracy.  The  Saxons  plot 
thine  assassination,  an  uprising  of  the  nation  and  the 
subversion  of  thy  dynasty." 

"Body  of  God!"  roared  the  Emperor.  "Whence 
this  idle  tale?" 

"Indeed  I  speak  sooth,  gentle  sovereign.  Their 
leader  is  Buves,  Duke  of  Aigremont;  the  cut- throat 
to  whom  thy  murder  is  assigned  his  nephew  Reynault, 
eldest  of  the  sons  of  Aymon!" 

"What,  the  seemly  stripling  whose  steed  carried  off 
the  chalice  at  the  courses  of  Liege?  Nay,  it  cannot 
be.  Yet,  by  our  Lady!  now  that  I  bethink  me,  'twas 
none  other  I  saw  lurking  by  the  postern  gate  yestreen — 
and  the  night  before,  though  he  slunk  into  the  shadow 
of  the  chapel  buttresses.  His  horse  was  found  pastur- 
ing on  the  archbishop's  tulip-bed.  It  hath  a  scurvy 
look.  Harkee,  Ganelon.  Go  thou  to  Aigremont, 
apprehend  these  villains,  and  fetch  them  to  me!" 

But  the  treacherous  Ganelon  far  exceeded  his  orders. 


102  Old  Belgium 

Demanding  entrance  in  the  Emperor's  name,  the 
gates  of  the  castle  were  thrown  open  and,  followed  by 
his  pikemen,  who  swarmed  swiftly  after  him,  he  sur- 
prised the  Duke  and  Reynault  dining  in  the  hall. 
Armed  only  with  their  swords,  the  women  behind  them, 
they  fought  their  way  to  a  turret.  The  assassins  how- 
ever burst  in  the  door  with  their  pikes.  As  they  rushed 
in  Reynault  caught  a  burly  pikeman  about  the  waist 
and  wrestled  with  him  to  a  window,  holding  him  in  so 
tight  a  grip  that  both  fell  to  the  marsh  which  on  that 
side  moated  the  castle. 

Well  for  Reynault  the  moat  was  shallow  and  that 
the  pain  which  he  suffered  was  but  from  a  twisted 
shoulder,  while  the  body  of  his  dead  antagonist  masked 
him  from  view.  So  he  lay  in  a  swoon  for  hours, 
at  last  drifting  back  to  consciousness  under  a  soft 
touch  nosing  his  cheek,  and  a  clover-scented  breath 
coming  in  short  puffs  at  his  ear.  Bayard  had  found 
his  master,  and  kicking  aside  the  encumbering  pike- 
man,  now  whispered  to  Reynault  in  low  entreating 
whinnys. 

Reynault  looked  upward  to  the  battlements  of  the 
castle.  There  dangled  horribly  the  naked  and  muti- 
lated bodies  of  his  uncle,  his  aged  aunt,  and  his  sweet 
cousin  Rothilde ! 

He  staggered  forward  and  would  have  rushed  into  the 
castle,  but  Bayard's  teeth  were  in  his  doublet.  Again 
he  cast  an  agonized  glance  at  those  distorted  faces — 


Legend  of  the  Sons  of  Aymon        103 

dead  past  all  doubt,  for  dawn  was  paling  the  stars. 
They  had  swung  thus  throughout  the  night ! 

He  mounted  Bayard  and  rode  sorrowfully  up  the 
valley  of  the  Meuse  to  rejoin  his  brothers  at  Dinant. 
Though  distracted  with  grief  and  indignation  at  the 
sad  tidings,  they  were  of  one  mind :  the  murder  of  their 
kindred  could  not  have  been  committed  by  the 
authority  of  Charlemagne. 

"Let  us  haste,"  they  cried,  "to  the  Emperor,  and 
demand  redress!" 

With  heavy  but  determined  hearts  the  four  sons  of 
Aymon  set  out  for  Aix,  whither  the  court  had  returned. 
As  they  neared  the  imperial  city  Guichard  drew 
Reynault  apart  from  the  others. 

"Brother  mine,"  he  said,  "my  heart  is  swelling  with 
such  joy  that  I  needs  must  give  it  vent.  Thou  knowest 
how  a  yearagone,  at  Angers,  I  met  Blanchefleur,  niece 
of  the  Emperor,  and  sister  of  Roland,  who  warreth  now 
'gainst  heathenesse." 

"Yea,  Brother,  well  know  I  how  thou  hast  longed  to 
fare  with  Roland  on  that  quest." 

"Nay  'twas  but  a  subterfuge  that  I  might  win  his 
sister.  No  longer  need  I  go  on  pilgrimage  to  find  her, 
for,  Reynault,  she  is  here." 

"What,  in  the  Forest  of  Ardennes!" 

"Nay  at  Aix.  She  is  with  the  court.  I  saw  her  at 
Liege.  Didst  thou  not  mark  her  at  the  races,  as  she 
sat  by  the  side  of  her  cousin  the  Princess  Erembour?" 


104  Old  Belgium 

"That  colourless  maid!"  Reynault  exclaimed," 
"whose  veins  methinks  run  milk  and  not  red 
blood." 

"Yea,  Blanchefleur,  the  lily  white,  the  lily  pure. 
O  Brother!  God's  saint  she  is,  and  I  a  sinner  went 
every  day  to  vespers  that  I  might  gaze  upon  her. 
Christ  forgive  me,  I  thought  not  on  Him  nor  said  my 
Aves  to  his  Mother,  but  to  another  blessed  Virgin, 
the  hem  of  whose  mantle  I  kissed  as  it  fluttered  past 
me.  And,  Brother,  incredible  as  it  is,  she  knows  of 
my  devotion  and  is  not  angered;  for,  not  by  chance 
a  blossom  of  white  hawthorn  fell  upon  the  pavement 
when  last  I  kissed  her  robe.  Ah!  sweet  saint,  what 
am  I  to  deserve  such  felicity?" 

Reynault  regarded  his  brother  with  pitying  amuse- 
ment, forgetting  for  the  nonce  his  own  similar  plight. 

"Thou  art  a  very  proper  man, "  he  said,  "well  deserv- 
ing such  a  lady,  be  she  all  thou  deemest.  When  we 
have  dispatched  our  weightier  business,  we  will  demand 
her  for  thee  of  the  Emperor." 

To  gain  access  to  Charlemagne  was  not,  however, 
the  simple  matter  which  Reynault  had  thought.  This 
could  never  be  effected  at  a  moment's  notice,  Anselm, 
Count  of  the  Palace  explained  to  them,  and  the  present 
time  was  peculiarly  unfavorable.  A  festival  celebrat- 
ing the  return  of  Pepin,  the  Emperor's  second  son, 
King  of  Italy,  from  a  victorious  campaign  against  the 
Huns  was  now  in  progress.     Charlemagne  was  more 


Legend  of  the  Sons  of  Aymon        105 

than  usually  occupied  in  giving  audience  to  guests  of 
exalted  rank.  The  utmost  that  could  be  done  was  to 
register  with  Anselm  a  deposition  of  their  grievance  and 
to  await,  with  what  patience  they  could,  a  summons 
to  appear  before  the  Emperor. 

The  spirits  of  youth  are  buoyant,  and  the  young 
men  determined  not  to  be  disheartened  by  this  rebuff, 
for  each  had  his  own  reason  for  not  chafing  at  the 
unexpected  delay.  Reynault  and  Guichard  hoped  to 
rejoin  their  sweethearts;  Adelard  had  sniffed  the  odour 
of  garlic  rising  from  pigeon-pasties,  for  which  the  inn 
of  the  Green  Dragon  was  justly  famed;  and  Richard 
was  eager  to  enjoy  the  divertissements  of  the  brilliant 
fete. 

The  narrow  streets  of  Aix  swarmed  with  a  motley 
crowd  of  knights,  squires,  monks,  burghers,  strollers, 
tatterdemalions,  and  vagabonds,  agog  with  curiosity 
and  excitement.  From  all  the  environs  thousands 
of  peasants  had  trooped  to  town  bringing  fruits  and 
vegetables  in  exchange  for  pleasures  of  the  city.  They 
thronged  the  market-place,  where  raftered  houses,  gay 
with  garlands  and  banderoles,  rose  in  tiers  jostling 
each  his  neighbour  in  seeming  effort  to  peer  over  his 
shoulders  at  the  joyous  carnival.  Troops  of  maskers 
danced  and  capered  below,  minstrels  and  trouba- 
dours with  lute  and  viol  discoursed  amorous  music 
on  balconies  above,  while  mountebanks  harangued 
laughing    groups    of    Burgundians    mellow    with    the 


106  Old  Belgium 

grape  and  roystering  Germans  maudlin  from  the 
stein. 

As  the  four  brothers  loitered  past,  one  of  the  buffoons 
declared  that  he  would  show  the  crowd  of  gaping  by- 
standers the  devil; — and,  taking  up  a  large  purse,  he 
displayed  it  to  all  absolutely  empty ! 

"Now,  good  people,"  he  inquired,  "is  it  not  the  devil 
indeed  to  open  your  purse  and  find  naught  therein?" 

On  they  passed,  threading  their  devious  way  through 
bands  of  mummers,  tumblers,  merry-Andrews,  wrest- 
lers, jongleurs,  fortune-tellers,  magicians,  and  ped- 
lars with  raucous  cries  hawking  incongruous  wares, 
every  manner  of  trumpery  from  relics  of  the  Holy 
Land  to  kickshaws  swimming  in  boiling  fat. 

A  troupe  of  miracle- players  had  set  their  scene 
on  the  very  steps  of  the  great  basilica.  Here  they 
elicited  roars  of  laughter  from  a  delighted  throng  by 
representing  Archbishop  Turpin  in  a  burlesque  en- 
counter with  the  devil,  wherein  the  august  prelate, 
after  sustaining  sundry  familiarities  from  the  foul 
fiend,  finally  retaliated  by  seizing  his  nose  with  red- 
hot  pincers  and  consigning  him  howling,  to  the  lower 
regions. 

Hereupon  the  doors  of  the  cathedral  flew  open  and  the 
real  archbishop,  in  full  canonicals,  emerged,  showering 
anathemas  upon  players  and  audience.  The  latter,  in 
frantic  effort  to  escape,  fell  mumchance  into  the  out- 
stretched trunk  of  a  gorgeously  caparisoned  elephant, 


Legend  of  the  Sons  of  Aymon        107 

which  the  ambassador  of  Haroun  Al  Raschid  was 
leading  to  the  Emperor. 

Indignant  at  the  hurtling  which  he  received  from  the 
vulgar  throng,  the  elephant,  from  a  fountain  which  the 
Emperor  had  commanded  should  for  this  hour  run 
wine,  filled  his  trunk  and  drenched  with  the  crimson 
flood  all  within  reach,  including  his  grace  the  arch- 
bishop. 

While  Adelard  and  Richard  were  enjoying  the 
wonders  of  the  city  and  the  toothsome  dainties  of  the 
inn,  Reynault  and  Guichard  busied  themselves  in  search- 
ing for  their  sweethearts.  The  former  haunted  the  en- 
virons of  the  imperial  palace,  spying  all  its  towers  in 
fruitless  search.  After  a  day  he  dispatched  a  missive 
to  Erembour,  by  a  page  of  the  palace,  and  was  rewarded 
by  a  glimpse  of  her  face  at  a  casement.  Though  she 
appeared  but  for  a  brief  moment  he  knew  that  she 
was  ware  of  his  presence,  for  there  fell  at  his  feet  the 
love  token,  a  yellow  tulip ! 

He  strove  again  to  send  a  letter,  but  by  ill-fortune 
her  brother,  Prince  Louis,  intercepted  the  messenger, 
wrenched  the  billet  from  his  hand,  and  tore  it  into  shreds. 

The  page  brought  Reynault  a  plea  from  Erembour: 
"An  you  love  me  Reynault  dear,  tempt  not  fate  but 
wait  the  token  of  the  red  tulip." 

Guichard  questing  his  lady  was  more  fortunate. 
Rightly  surmising  that  Blanchefleur  would  at  some 
time  be  found  at  her  devotions,  early  and  late  he  had 


108  Old  Belgium 

been  most  assiduous  in  attendance  at  the  imperial 
basilica.  It  soon  chanced  that  he  espied  her  during 
the  celebration  of  early  mass,  and,  kneeling  by  her 
side,  he  gently  touched  her  hand.  Blanchefleur 
trembled  like  a  startled  fawn,  then  timidly  returned 
the  pressure;  but  the  omnipresent  Empress  Hildegarde 
was  but  a  pace  behind  her  and  she  passed  from  the 
church  giving  Guichard  no  salutation. 

He  continued  to  attend  matins  and  it  fortuned  one 
morning  that  he  discerned  Blanchefleur  alone,  while  her 
duenna  was  enumerating  her  manifold  sins  behind  the 
curtains  of  the  confessional.  Straightway  they  pro- 
ceeded to  exchange  confidences,  their  faces  bowed 
devoutly  over  their  missals. 

"Sweet  Guichard,"  Blanchefleur  entreated,  "bid 
thy  brother,  on  his  life,  show  himself  no  longer  nigh 
the  palace.  Ganelon  hath  persuaded  the  Emperor 
that  Reynault  seeketh  to  assassinate  him.  If  he  come 
again  it  will  mean  his  death,  for  Ganelon  hath  so  duped 
my  uncle  that  he  purposeth  soon  to  bestow  upon  him 
the  hand  of  my  cousin  Erembour." 

Guichard  carried  these  parlous  tidings  to  his  brother, 
but  none  the  less  on  the  following  day  Reynault  and 
Guichard  presented  themselves  in  the  ante-room  of  the 
Emperor's  audience-chamber  to  demand  a  hearing. 
Here  Anselm  informed  them  that  Charlemagne  had 
approved  the  execution  of  the  Duke  of  Aigremont  and 
had  conferred  his  estates  upon  Ganelon. 


Legend  of  the  Sons  of  Aymon        109 

It  chanced  as  Reynault  quitted  the  palace  in  a  fever 
that  he  neglected,  for  the  first  time,  to  glance  upward 
while  passing  Erembour's  casement;  and  the  yellow 
tulip  was  caught  in  its  fall  by  a  knight  approaching 
from  the  contrary  direction.  The  presumption  of  this 
stranger  was  not  to  pass  unheeded,  and  Reynault 
angrily  called  upon  him  to  surrender  the  flower. 

He  retorted:  "If  thou  wouldst  dispute  with  me 
the  right  to  wear  this  token,  it  were  more  seemly  this 
to  do  privily  instead  of  brawling  beneath  the  window 
of  her  who  threw  it  me." 

Reynault  could  not  but  acknowledge  the  reasonable- 
ness of  this  demand.  "Thy  name,  caitiff,"  he  cried, 
"anon  thou  shalt  hear  from  me!" 

"The  Knight  of  the  Tulip,"  sneered  the  stranger, 
waving  the  flower  triumphantly  as  he  spurred  away. 

"Thou  hast  'scaped  encounter  with  the  best  sword 
in  Lorraine, "  said  a  bystander.  "Knowest  thou  not 
the  invincible  champion  whom  the  Emperor  hath 
chosen  to  joust  with  his  sons  against  all  comers?"  . 

"Nay,  his  name,  I  know  him  not,"  reiterated 
Reynault. 

"Until  yesterday  all  knew  him  as  Count  Ganelon, 
but  henceforth  we  must  yield  him  the  title  Duke  of 
Aigremont!" 

"That  will  I  never,"  exclaimed  Reynault,  smarting 
under  the  lash  of  the  double  injury. 

While  he  stood  pondering  how  best  to  come  at  his 


no  Old  Belgium 


t>j 


revenge,  with  a  fanfare  of  trumpets  a  herald  mounted 
the  steps  of  the  palace  and  proclaimed  the  invitation 
to  take  part  in  the  tournament. 

"Oyez,  oyez!"  he  cried,  "be  it  known  to  all  princes, 
seigneurs,  barons,  knights,  and  squires  of  his  illustrious 
and  all  puissant  majesty,  Charles  the  Great.  Whether 
they  be  of  the  march  of  Lorraine,  of  the  march  of 
Flanders,  of  the  march  of  Allemania,  of  the  march  of 
Burgundy,  of  the  Isle  de  France,  of  the  march  of  Aqui- 
taine,  of  Lombardy  and  so  following.  And  to  all 
chevaliers  of  Christian  lands,  if  they  be  not  foemen  to 
the  Emperor  our  sire,  to  whom  God  grant  long  life, 
that  at  twelve  of  the  clock  noon,  in  the  meadow 
by  the  lake  of  Aix-la-Chapelle,  will  be  a  very  great 
pardon  of  arms  and  a  very  noble  tournament,  fought 
after  all  the  ancient  customs,  at  which  tourney  the 
chiefs  are:  the  very  illustrious  Princes  Charles,  Pepin, 
and  Louis,  sons  of  our  imperial  sovereign  Charlemagne, 
and  Duke  Ganelon  of  Lorraine  appellants,  who  hereby 
challenge  all  comers  to  take  part  in  the  said  tourney 
for  the  glory  of  knighthood  and  the  fame  of  their 
ladies." 

Hereupon  Reynault  plucked  Guichard  by  the  sleeve. 
"Brother,"  said  he,  "time  is  to  avenge  our  uncle's 
death  on  this  craven  Ganelon.  Since  hath  he  dealt  me 
injury  under  cover  of  fine  advantage,  but  at  our  third 
meeting  by  the  grace  of  God  and  the  Saints  he  shall 
repay  the  debt." 


Legend  of  the  Sons  of  Aymon        in 

"Certes, "  replied  Guichard,  "our  uncle's  blood 
crieth  for  vengeance,  and  since  this  unjust  Emperor 
is  deaf  to  our  appeal  refer  we  it  to  Heaven.  Perchance 
in  this  gentle  pardon  of  arms  we  shall,  through  the 
persons  of  the  proud  princes,  deal  some  small  discom- 
fiture on  Charlemagne  as  punishment  for  his  slackness." 

While  Reynault,  tortured  by  suspicion  as  well  as  by 
rage,  could  scarcely  await  the  tourney,  Guichard,  who 
had  no  personal  injury  to  avenge,  would  gladly  have 
avoided  the  combat  had  such  a  course  consisted  with 
his  conception  of  honour.  He  had  held  converse  with 
Blanchefleur  at  vespers,  when  she  passed  him  'twixt  the 
leaves  of  her  missal  the  key  to  the  bower  of  Erembour. 
That  night  he  mounted  to  the  tryst,  leaving  Richard  to 
guard  the  stairway. 

Blanchefleur,  a  wreath  of  bride-roses  on  her  hair,  met 
him  with  a  face  as  white  when  Guichard  declared  his 
intent  to  enter  the  tournament.  "Sweet  Christ,  have 
pity!"  she  cried.  "Something  seems  to  tell  me, 
Guichard,  this  night  we  part  for  aye!" 

Guichard's  heart  was  also  oppressed  by  a  premoni- 
tion of  evil.  "If  I  live  I  will  surely  come  to  claim 
thee,"  he  promised,  but  as  they  embraced  in  farewell 
his  eyes  were  sad  as  the  Grail  Knight's,  parting  from 
his  beloved  Blanchefleur,  fearing  that  it  was  to  be 
forever. 

Now  it  fortuned  that  on  this  very  night  Reynault, 
who  knew  not  of  Guichard's  tryst  within,  waited  beneath 


ii2  Old  Belgium 

the  tower  the  accustomed  token  from  Erembour.  A 
taper  illumined  the  casement  and,  outlined  against  its 
radiance,  he  caught  the  profile  of  a  woman's  face. 
Then  it  vanished  and  suddenly  a  man's  shadow  (that 
of  his  brother  though  he  knew  him  not)  fell  on  the 
flag-stones  at  his  feet.  Reynault  strained  his  eyes  to 
discover  whom  it  might  be,  but  to  his  deluded  vision, 
the  man's  shadow  merged  in  the  image  of  Erembour — 
the  two  meeting  in  passionate  embrace ! 

Reynault  staggered  into  an  archway  opposite,  the 
demon  of  jealousy  taking  possession  of  his  soul. 

in 

THE  JOUST 

Anon,  the  sounding  clarionnes  boldly  blare 
A  blaste  that  echoes  through  the  cryptes  of  time, 
Penon  and  gonfalon  flaunt  wide  unfurled; 
Whil,  armed  cap-a-pie,  in  argent  maile, 
On  chargers  eek  with  Steele  caparisoned, 
The  champiouns  pace  forth  in  proud  arraye. 
Then  o'er  the  teeming  listes  a  billowe  sweeps, 
Of  waiving  scarves,  as  suddene  al  the  knyghtes 
Sette  lance  in  rest,  spur  furious  to  the  charge, 
Let  loose  from  lustye  lungs  a  roare  of  warre 
And,  meeting  in  the  midst,  hurl  down  to  death ! 

Along  the  broad  highway  they  rode  in  brave  defile, 
a  gay  cavalcade  brilliant  with  gleaming  steel  and 
motley  of  velvets,  silks,  and  cloth  of  gold.  Ladies 
mounted  on  white  palfreys,  chevaliers  on  richly  capari- 


— 

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Legend  of  the  Sons  of  Aymon        113 

soned  chargers  curvetting  proudly  under  the  curb, 
ambled  in  endless  processional  across  the  wide  cham- 
paign to  a  sapphire  lake,  on  the  banks  of  which  were 
pitched  the  lists  and  pavilions  of  the  champions. 

Above  a  lofty  stockade  like  a  great  rainbow  loomed 
the  amphitheatre,  its  crescent  tiers  glittering  in  the 
noonday  sun  with  the  varicoloured  apparel  of  the 
multitude.  On  the  sides  stretched  the  tribunes  of 
the  King  and  Ladies,  gay  with  gonfalons  and  garlands. 

Enthroned  upon  a  tapestried  dais,  under  an  embla- 
zoned panoply,  robed  in  purple  samite  sat  the  Emperor. 
At  his  side,  suspended  by  a  ruby  studded  baldric, 
hung  his  battle-sword  "Monjoie!"  A  mantle  of  miniver 
fell  in  sumptuous  folds  to  the  steps  of  the  throne,  on 
either  side  of  which  were  seated  Duke  Ogier  of  Denmark 
and  Archbishop  Turpin.  Ranged  about  Charlemagne 
in  golden  semicircle  gleamed  the  twelve  illustrious 
Paladins  of  the  Empire,  behind  whom  Ibn  El  Arabi 
and  his  turbaned  Saracens  made  an  ebony  and  ivory 
background  which  set  in  bold  relief  the  gold  and  purple 
of  the  imperial  suite. 

All  the  flower  of  chivalry  was  clustered  in  one  vart 
garden,  gorgeous  with  banners  and  blazonry.  Not 
Lorraine  alone,  but  the  entire  sovereignty  of  the 
Roman  Empire  was  represented ;  for  his  son  Pepin  had 
brought  from  Lombardy  a  goodly  following  of  condot- 
tieri,  whose  boldest  lances  lusted  to  tempt  fortune  in 
the  tournament.  From  Champagne,  the  valiant  Due 
t 


H4  Old  Belgium 

Thibault  de  Coucy  and  a  score  of  bronzed  chevaliers 
had  ridden  all  the  way  to  Aix  in  the  hope  of  wresting, 
from  the  Carlovingian  princes,  the  coveted  trophy; 
while  a  band  of  flaxen-haired  Allemanians  had  crossed 
the  Rhine  equally  confident  of  victory. 

Holding  in  her  hands  the  wreath  of  golden  laurel 
with  which  to  crown  the  victor,  Erembour,  "Sovereign 
of  Love  and  Beauty,"  shone  resplendent  in  the  centre 
of  the  Ladies'  Tribune.  Beside  her  towered  the  Empress 
Hildegarde,  rotund  and  awesome,  in  stiff  brocade  and 
jewel-broidered  stomacher.  Surrounding  them  a  bevy 
of  court-beauties  formed  a  shining  diadem  in  which  the 
fair  Blanchefleur,  lily-pale  and  breathless  with  excite- 
ment, was  the  central  pearl. 

"Largesse,  largesse,  gallant  knights!"  cry  the  heralds, 
while  a  shower  of  golden  coins  rains  upon  them  from 
the  spendthrift  throng.  "Love  of  Ladies — Death  of 
Champions !  Splintering  of  Lances !  Ride  forth,  brave 
knights,  bright  eyes  await  your  deeds!  Largesse, 
largesse!"1 

The  appellants,  or  challenging  party,  ranged  them- 
selves, a  glitter  of  polished  steel  and  waving  plumes, 
in  front  of  their  pavilions;  while  behind  each  knight 
stationed  himself  a  mounted  standard-bearer.  The 
barriers  were  thrown  open  and  the  defendants,  four 
Italian    champions,    mounted    on    heavily    armoured 

1  The  traditional  cry  of  the  heralds,  see  Walter  Scott,  to  whom  we  are 
indebted  for  material  relating  to  the  tournament. 


Legend  of  the  Sons  of  Aymon        115 

chargers,  rode  into  the  arena  to  the  clash  of  cymbals 
and  blare  of  brasses.  After  making  the  circuit  of 
the  amphitheatre  under  the  gaze  of  the  mighty  con- 
course, they  approached  the  pavilions  of  the  appellants 
and  touched,  with  the  butts  of  their  lances,  the  shields 
of  their  chosen  adversaries. 

A  murmur  of  disapproval  from  the  throng  indicated 
its  disappointment  at  the  choice  of  "courteous  arms."1 

The  Italian  knights  then  withdrew  to  the  end  of 
the  lists  and  ranged  themselves  in  line;  the  Carlovin- 
gian  princes  and  their  leader  Duke  Ganelon  in  the 
meantime  placing  themselves  opposite  their  antagonists. 

Eagerly  awaiting  the  signal,  mounted  axmen  pre- 
pare to  cut  the  cords,  which  separate,  by  a  wide 
lane,  the  opposing  parties.  A  grand  fanfare  of  trum- 
pets— the  cords  fall — and  the  tournament  begins! 

Standing  in  their  stirrups,  with  lances  in  rest,  the 
eight  champions  charge  furiously  upon  one  another. 

When  the  cloud  of  dust  had  subsided,  the  antagon- 
ists of  Charles,  Pepin,  and  Louis,  were  seen  writhing 
on  the  ground.  Of  the  Italian  knights,  Count  Hercule 
of  Pavia  alone  remained  in  the  saddle,  having  shivered 
spears  to  no  effect  with  his  opponent  Duke  Ganelon. 
Amid  a  tumult  of  applause,  the  victorious  princes 
retired  to  their  pavilions  ;  while  the  vanquished  knights 
of  Lombardy  limped  from  the  lists. 

1  "Courteous  arms"  were  lances  to  the  points  of  which  disks  of  wood 
were  attached  and  blunted  swords  too  wide  to  enter  the  visor. 


n6  Old  Belgium 

"Methinks,  my  frail  flower,"  said  Queen  Hildegarde, 
"I  discern  in  thee  an  unwonted  pallour.  Thy  spirit 
is  o'er  ruthful  to  endure  these  rough  jousts.  If  thou 
wilt,  thou  may'st  withdraw  ere  the  blood-tide  runs 
full  flood." 

To  this  Blanchefleur  dissented,  pretending  that 
she  was  well  at  ease  and  eager  to  witness  the  exploits 
of  the  princes. 

"Bide  without  fear,  sweet  coz,"  whispered  Erem- 
bour,  "of  a  surety  the  prize  will  fall  to  our  champions, 
for  'tis  their  wont  to  win  whatsoe'er  they  set  heart 
upon." 

Clad  in  steel  armour,  damascened  with  gold  and 
silver,  the  French  chevaliers,  undaunted  by  the  defeat 
of  their  predecessors,  next  took  the  field.  For  a  time 
the  tide  of  fortune  wavered  between  the  opposing  parties', 
but  the  sons  of  Charlemagne  at  length  carried  off  the 
honours  of  the  hour,  neither  failing  thrust  nor  losing 
seat  in  the  encounter.  Unhelmeted  and  unhorsed, 
the  Gallic  champions  fled  incontinently  from  the  field, 
forfeiting  by  their  defeat  caparisons,  steeds,  and  armour. 

"By  my  hilt!"  cried  Charlemagne,  his  eyes  aglow 
with  pride,  "my  sons  acquit  themselves  right 
manfully!" 

"Not  without  reason,"  replied  Archbishop  Turpin, 
"for  in  their  youthful  veins  flows  the  red  blood  of 
their  sire." 

"Gramercy  for  thy  courtesy,"   said  the  Emperor, 


Legend  of  the  Sons  of  Aymon        117 

11  'tis  music  to  mine  ear.  But  if  I  mistake  me  not,  they 
have  now  to  deal  with  sterner  stuff,  for  hither  comes 
the  blood  of  Queen  Hildegarde  who  hath  ever  proved 
my  conqueror." 

As  he  spoke  four  Allemanian  knights,  led  by  Duke 
Ceroid  of  Bavaria,  brother  of  the  Empress,  rode 
proudly  into  the  arena.  At  a  flourish  of  clarions, 
they  spurred  against  the  challengers,  meeting  in  the 
midst  with  a  clash  which  brought  the  huge  throng 
to  its  feet  as  one  man.  Of  the  German  champions, 
half  were  unhorsed  at  the  first  onset,  and  the  remainder 
vanquished  in  the  ensuing  conflict,  in  which  Prince 
Charles  overthrew  his  opponent,  and  Duke  Gerold 
was  felled  by  a  mighty  thrust  from  the  lance  of  Ganelon. 

The  unfailing  fortune  of  the  appellants  appeared 
to  chill  the  ardour  of  the  defendants;  no  other  cham- 
pions dared  oppose  the  victorious  princes,  and  un- 
ceasing plaudits  of  the  throng  bespoke  its  delight  in 
the  triumph  of  its  countrymen. 

"It  waxeth  late,  our  champions  come  not!"  whis- 
pered Blanchefleur  to  Erembour,  "and  perchance 
'tis  better  so,  since  they  must  either  vanquish  thy 
brothers  or  suffer  hurt  at  their  hands." 

"Dastards  they  are  not,"  replied  the  Princess. 
"Of  a  surety  they  will  come.  Time  is  my  braggart 
brothers  were  taught  there  are  doughtier  men  in  the 
world.  As  for  Duke  Ganelon  he  hath  a  cruel  lance 
and  a  tricky  sword.     Heaven  grant  he  meet  his  doom ! " 


u8  Old  Belgium 

Blanchefleur  went  white.  "0  holy  Virgin,"  she 
prayed  within  her  heart,  "suffer  Guichard  not  to  come 
into  this  field  of  death." 

"Prithee,  daughter,"  demanded  the  Empress,  "what 
saidst  thou?     For  methinks  I  heard  but  ill." 

"I  said,"  replied  the  adroit  Erembour,  "that  there 
are  no  doughtier  men  in  the  world  than  my  brothers 
and  Duke  Ganelon." 

The  Emperor  now  called  Count  Anselm,  Marshal 
of  the  Day.  "Since  it  hath  pleased  God  to  bring 
our  sons  unscathed  to  victory  were  it  not  seemly  now 
to  adjudge  the  prize?" 

"In  verity,  sire,"  answered  Anselm.  "The  triumph 
of  the  Princes  and  Duke  Ganelon  cannot  be  gainsaid!" 

Charlemagne  rose  and  was  about  to  address  the 
expectant  multitude  when  a  defiant  blast  of  a  trumpet 
broke  the  silence,  heralding  the  arrival  of  new  cham- 
pions! Eyes  were  strained  and  necks  craned  in  the 
effort  to  learn  who  these  might  be.  The  barriers 
were  suddenly  thrown  open  and  four  knights,  clad  in 
armour  without  device,  mounted  on  black  chargers, 
rode  slowly  into  the  lists. 

Alone  in  the  vast  assemblage,  springing  to  her 
feet  as  she  recognized  the  sons  of  Aymon,  Blanchefleur 
uttered  a  cry  of  delight ! 

"Who  may  these  intruders  be,"  exclaimed  the 
Emperor,  "that  affront  us  thus  disguised?" 

"F  faith,  I  know  not,"  replied  Ogier  the  Dane, 


Legend  of  the  Sons  of  Aymon        119 

"  unless  they  be  Britons  or  other  barbarians  untaught 
in  the  lore  of  blazonry." 

Meanwhile  the  unknown  champions,  with  closed 
visors,  had  filed  in  processional  around  the  arena, 
saluting  the  Emperor  and  ladies  by  lowering  lances. 
Their  gallant  bearing  won  the  immediate  approval  of 
the  multitude  who  hailed  them  with  shouts  of  acclaim 
and  waving  of  scarfs. 

The  black  knights  then  approached  their  antagonists 
and  struck,  with  the  points  of  their  lances,  the  shields 
of  the  Princes  and  Duke  Ganelon,  thus  signifying  that 
the  challenge  was  &  I'outrance,  or  to  mortal  combat. 

Amazed  by  this  unexpected  audacity,  Ganelon 
angrily  addressed  his  opponents:  "Are  ye  shrived 
fools,  that  ye  thus  court  certain  death?" 

"Recreant,"  retorted  Reynault,  "methinks  'tis  thou 
shouldst  seek  absolution,  for  this  day  shall  I  avenge 
my  uncle's  murder!" 

Backing  their  chargers  to  the  end  of  the  lists,  the 
four  unknown  champions,  motionless  as  statues, 
awaited  the  signal  for  the  onset. 

A  blast  of  clarions,  and  the  eight  knights  simul- 
taneously crashed  together,  splintering  lances  with  a 
shock  which  threw  their  chargers  back  upon  their 
haunches;  then,  adroitly  recovering,  galloped  back  to 
the  extremity  of  the  lists  to  take  new  spears  from 
their  servitors. 

A  clamour  of  applause  from  the  sea  of  onlookers, 


120  Old  Belgium 

gradually  subsided  into  a  breathless  silence,  as  the 
bugles  blared  to  renew  the  combat. 

The  eight  champions  again  flashed  at  one  another, 
shivering  spear  on  shield  with  the  crash  of  a  thunder 
bolt,  and  Princes  Pepin  and  Louis,  reeling  in  the  saddle, 
whirled  heavily  to  the  ground.  Instantly  the  sable 
knights  sprang  from  their  steeds  and  with  naked 
glaives  stood  ready  to  strike.  But  the  prostrate 
princes  rose  not  and  were  borne  senseless  to  their 
pavilions. 

Charlemagne  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  but 
remained  silent. 

"I  go,  sire,"  said  Duke  Ogier,"  to  learn  what 
injuries  thy  sons  have  suffered." 

"Heaven  grant  they  be  not  mortal,"  exclaimed 
the  Emperor,  while  the  Archbishop,  crossing  himself, 
gravely  murmured:  "The  issues  of  life  are  in  the 
hands  of  God." 

After  an  interval  of  a  few  moments  Charlemagne 
motioned  to  the  heralds  to  sound  the  onset.  Four 
knights,  only,  appeared  in  the  encounter,  in  which 
Reynault  crossed  lance  with  Ganelon  and  Guichard 
opposed  Prince  Charles.  At  the  first  shock  of  the 
galloping  chargers  Charles  went  down  before  the  well- 
directed  spear  of  his  Belgian  adversary;  but  Ganelon, 
by  a  swift  manoeuvre  of  his  courser,  evaded  the  thrust 
of  Reynault,  wheeling  adroitly  and  withdrawing  in 
safety  to  the  rear. 


Legend  of  the  Sons  of  Aymon        121 

As  the  two  remaining  contestants  entered  the 
lists  a  hush  fell  upon  the  multitude.  For  a  moment 
they  eyed  one  another — Ganelon  stolid  and  sinister, 
Reynault,  alive  with  eagerness  and  determination. 
Suddenly  the  marshal  let  fall  his  gauntlet  and  both 
knights  charged  in  full  career!  But  the  steed  of 
Ganelon,  swerving  in  midcourse,  deflected  his  master's 
lance,  causing  it  to  glance  harmlessly  over  his  oppo- 
nent's shoulder.  Of  this  vantage  the  black  knight 
disdained  to  avail  himself,  returning  to  his  station 
amid  the  plaudits  of  the  throng  and  giving  his  rival 
the  opportunity  of  another  combat. 

"Sire,"  said  Ogier  the  Dane,  returning  joyously, 
"I  bring  good  tidings!  The  princes  rally  under  the 
ministrations  of  thy  leech  and  bid  fair  ere  long  to 
recover." 

Charlemagne,  heartened  by  the  news,  replied: 
"'Tis  well,  good  friend,  but  if  I  mistake  me  not,  in 
this  unknown  knight,  Duke  Ganelon  hath  met  his 
peer." 

"By  my  sword,"  cried  Ogier,  "he  is  indeed  a  man 
of  great  heartiness  and  I  tremble  lest  our  champion 
is  too  spent  with  the  contest  to  endure  the  thrusts 
of  this  stranger." 

The  King's  champion,  however,  in  the  second  course 
attacked  his  opponent  with  so  true  an  aim  that  he 
shattered  his  helmet,  which  rolled  its  sable  plumes 
upon  the  ground.     Stunned  and  wounded,  the  blood 


122  Old  Belgium 

gushing  from  his  forehead,  Reynault  withstood  the 
shock  as  though  welded  to  his  steed;  and,  spurring 
back  to  his  comrades  amid  a  tumult  of  applause, 
appeared  forthwith  in  a  new  head-piece. 

"St.  George  aid  thee!  O  Reynault  dear!"  Ex- 
claimed Erembour,  "that  thou  may'st  drive  this  Satan 
Ganelon  to  deepest  Hell!" 

"Do  I  hear  thee  aright,  daughter?"  inquired  the 
Empress. 

"I  prayed,"  stammered  Erembour,  "may  Saint 
George  aid  Duke  Ganelon  to  wreak  doom  upon  this 
stranger!" 

"Amen,"  responded  the  befooled  Hildegarde,  as  the 
clarions  blared  for  the  final  combat. 

Armed  cap-a-pie  in  shining  mail,  sitting  their  horses 
like  brazen  statues,  the  two  warriors  rode  into  the 
arena.  In  a  thunderous  onset,  the  avenging  Reynault 
bore  down  so  lustily  upon  his  antagonist  that  he  pierced 
his  hauberk  at  the  first  encounter,  and  toppling  from 
the  saddle,  the  indomitable  Ganelon  crashed  lifeless  to 
earth! 

As  the  body  of  the  defeated  champion  was  being 
carried  from  the  lists  Charlemagne  rose  and  pro- 
claimed the  Black  Knight  victor  of  the  day;  while  the 
latter  sat,  heedless  of  the  throng,  who  greeted  his 
triumph  with  a  tempest  of  applause  and  a  glittering 
rain  of  coins  and  flowers. 

Advancing  to  the  Tribune  of  the  Ladies  and  dis- 


Legend  of  the  Sons  of  Aymon        123 

mounting  from  his  horse,  Reynault  knelt  at  the  feet 
of  Erembour,  Sovereign  of  Love  and  Beauty,  who,  as 
she  crowned  him  with  the  golden  laurel,  intertwined 
therewith  a  crimson  tulip  and  whispered  in  his  ear, 
"0  Reynault  dear! " 

But  the  surprises  of  this  eventful  day  were  not 
yet  at  an  end.  Leading  them  across  the  field  strewn 
with  debris  of  the  conflict,  Marshal  Anselm  escorted 
the  unknown  champions  to  the  presence  of  the  Emperor. 

"Unhelm,  valiant  Knights,"  commanded  Charle- 
magne, "that  I  may  now  proclaim  the  names  of  those 
who  have  gained  the  honours  of  the  day,  for  I  would 
fain  requite,  according  to  their  deserts,  such  gallant 
feats  of  arms." 

Instead  of  removing  their  casques,  as  bidden,  the 
four  brothers  merely  threw  back  their  visors,  con- 
fronting the  Emperor  with  bitter  and  insolent  faces. 

"We  are  the  sons  of  Aymon,"  retorted  Reynault, 
"till  now  thy  loyal  subjects.  But  when  our  beloved 
uncle  fell,  foully  murdered  by  the  assassin  Ganelon, 
we  came  to  Aix  to  demand  redress.  Since  thou 
would'st  neither  grant  us  aid  nor  audience,  we  have 
thus  avenged  his  murder  and  now  renounce  our  fealty 
to  thee  and  defy  thy  vaunted  power!" 

Having  flung  this  defiance  in  the  teeth  of  the  aston- 
ished Emperor,  they  wheeled  their  horses  suddenly 
about  and,  before  he  could  recover  from  his  stupefaction 
and  chagrin,  galloped  furiously  from  the  lists. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A    BOAR   OF   THE   ARDENNES 

(WHEREIN  ARE  SET  FORTH  FURTHER  ADVENTURES  OF  THE 
SONS  OF  AYMON) 

BELLE  EREMBOUR 

When,  with  the  cold,  days  shorten  fast, 
To  Aigremont  came  the  knights  of  France, 
And  Reynault  riding  in  advance; 
The  tower  of  Erembour  he  passed 
Nor  deigned  her  way  to  throw  a  glance. 
"O,  Reynault  dear!" 

Within  her  turret  on  her  knees 
Weaving  the  brilliant  broideries, 
Fair  Erembour  the  Knights  of  France 
Perceived,  and  Reynault  in  advance, 
In  grieved  surprise  she  sudden  cries 
"0,  Reynault  dear!" 

"O,  Reynault  dear,  a  time  was  when 
If  that  you  passed  my  casement  then 
Full  sad  were  you,  if  from  the  tower 
I  leaned  not  forth  to  cast  a  flower." 

"Still  am  I  sad,  still  true  to  thee, 
But  faithless  thou  hast  been  to  me." 

"0,  Reynault  dear!" 
124 


W  -5 


A  Boar  of  the  Ardennes  125 

"  Dear  Reynault,  by  my  faith  I  swear, 
And  by  the  hundred  virgins  fair 
Who  Mary  serve,  so  debonair, 
Save  you  alone  no  man  I  love, 
Come,  take  my  kiss  in  proof  thereof. 
"O,  Reynault  dear!" 

Then  Reynault  climbs  the  turret  tall, 
With  shoulders  broad  and  baldric  small 
His  flaxen  curls  like  wavelets  fall. 
A  knight  more  fair  no  land  doth  know, 
For  love  of  him  her  tears  do  flow. 
"O,  Reynault  dear!" 

When  Reynault  came  within  the  door, 
Upon  a  couch  sat  Erembour, 
Weaving  the  brilliant  broideries; 
Then  as  they  met  each  other's  eyes, 
Up-leapt  the  ardent  love  of  yore 
More  sweet,  more  fragrant  than  before. 
"0,  Reynault  dear!" 

He  spake:     "  My  words  belied  my  heart, 
Think  naught  of  what  my  tongue  did  say. 
Think  of  our  love,  ere  we  did  part, 
And  of  a  man  who  loves  for  aye!" 
"0,  Reynault  dear!"1 

TP  the  valley  of  the  Me  use  to  their  mighty  fortress 
**-'  of  Dinant  sped  the  four  sons  of  Aymon,  fortifying 
themselves  in  hot  haste  for  a  siege  which  well  they  recked 
would  follow.  Scarcely  had  they  hoisted  the  draw- 
bridge and  thrust  forth  the  hoardings,  when  the  entire 

1  Prom  an  unknown  author  of  the  twelfth  century. 


126  Old  Belgium 

country-side  bristled  with  armed  men  who  beset  the 
castle  so  vigilantly  that  not  a  mouse  could  escape. 

Serfs  seeking  shelter  in  the  stronghold  brought  tidings 
of  a  fearsome  horde  ravaging  the  province  under  the 
leadership  of  the  unconquerable  Ganelon,  whom  Rey- 
nault  deemed  left  dead  upon  the  field  of  Aix. 

Relentlessly  he  pressed  the  siege:  mangonel  and 
trebuchet,  battering-ram  and  every  manner  of  siege- 
engine  were  brought  to  bear  upon  the  doomed  fortress. 
Driven  from  the  outer  defences  by  overwhelming  odds, 
fighting  valiantly  for  every  foot  of  vantage,  the  little 
band  of  defenders  at  last  took  refuge  in  the  keep,  where 
they  held  the  besiegers  at  bay. 

The  assailants,  protected  from  the  rain  of  boiling 
pitch  under  a  roof  of  rawhides,  brought  up  a  battering- 
ram,  and  with  thunderous  blows  breached  the  huge 
wall.  Piling  faggots  about  the  base  of  the  donjon, 
where  his  helpless  victims  were  prisoned  like  rats  in 
a  trap,  Ganelon  fired  the  mass  with  a  blazing  torch. 
Flames  roared  up  the  spiral  stairway  as  though  it  were 
a  chimney,  smoke  burst  from  windows  and  billowed 
from  roof.  The  air  was  rent  with  a  roar  of  falling 
timbers,  till  at  last  the  undermined  keep  toppled  in 
with  a  crash  that  reverberated  from  mountain  to  moun- 
tain across  the  serrated  ranges  of  the  Ardennes. 

Not  a  sign  was  disclosed  of  the  four  brothers;  it  was 
rumoured  that  they  were  consumed  in  the  conflagration. 
The  legend  recounted  by  Mere  Margot  is  but  a  trifling 


A  Boar  of  the  Ardennes  127 

exaggeration  of  fact.  A  moment  before  the  tower  fell 
the  sons  of  Aymon  with  a  few  companions  retreated  to 
a  barbican  below  the  cliff,  and,  swimming  the  river, 
fled  in  safety  to  Dordogne,  the  domain  of  their 
father. 

'Twere  a  fruitless  quest  to  relate  the  legendary  adven- 
tures from  flight  to  home-coming,  in  which  they  bravely 
but  vainly  attempted  to  rescue  Roland,  brother  of 
Blanchefleur,  at  Roncesvalles,  and  how  that  on  occa- 
sion they  saved  the  life  of  Charlemagne  by  holding  a 
defile  until  a  messenger  warned  him  of  the  approaching 
enemy.  Though  most  diligently  sought  they  vanished 
mysteriously. 

Great  honour  they  gained  and  might  have  succeeded 
their  father  in  governance  of  Dordogne  had  not  the 
loved  memory  of  Erembour  and  Blanchefleur  drawn 
them  like  a  lodestone  to  the  Ardennes.  It  was  mid- 
winter when  the  four  brothers  arrived  at  the  blackened 
ruins  of  Dinant.  Pausing  only  to  say  a  prayer  at  the 
little  church  under  the  cliff  they  continued  onward, 
through  wild  mountain  gorges  to  their  huntir.g-lodge 
of  Ambleve,  a  lone  tower  upon  a  rocky  eminence. 

Here  they  found  Maugis,  the  Druid,  hanging  the  hall 
with  mistletoe,  for  by  his  magic  art  he  had  forecast 
their  approach.  Adelard  was  greeted  with  a  savoury 
matelotte  of  venison,  and  the  spent  steeds  were  given 
provender.  Bayard,  recognizing  his  former  master, 
mingled  mane  and  beard  in  a  drift  of  snow  as  he 


128  Old  Belgium 

nestled  his  nose  lovingly  against  the  enchanter's 
withered  cheek. 

Returning  to  the  tower  Reynault's  sharp  eye  was 
arrested  by  marks  of  hoofs. 

"Yea,"  said  Maugis,  "they  are  tracks  of  boars  which, 
now  that  snow  covers  the  acorns,  come  nigh  habitations. 
To  go  abroad  unarmed  is  fraught  with  peril.  Only 
yesternight  they  devoured  a  child!" 

"By  St.  Hubert!"  shouted  Adelard,  "the  morrow  we 
will  to  the  hunt  and  spear  such  swine-flesh  as  was  ne'er 
spitted   before." 

"Range,  an  ye  will,  to  the  east,"  counselled  Maugis, 
"but  approach  not  Aigremont,  for  there  Ganelon  and 
the  Emperor  hold  high  revel  in  honour  of  the  Duke's 
espousals  with  the  Princess  Erembour." 

"Fear  not  that  I  break  in  upon  their  mirth,"  said 
Reynault  bitterly. 

But  the  heart  of  Guichard  leaped  within  him.  Wait- 
ing only  until  his  brothers  slept  he  saddled  Bayard  and 
set  forth  in  quest  of  the  fair  Blanchefleur. 

The  morn  the  other  brothers  rose  betimes  eager 
with  excitement  for  the  chase,  a  scowl  seaming  the 
brow  of  Reynault  as  he  learned  of  his  brother's  secret 
departure. 

"  Rashling,  thus  to  peril  his  life  for  a  faithless  wench, 
who  I  misdoubt  is  but  tempting  bait  to  lure  him  into  a 
trap  whence  he  may  not  escape." 

"Ay,"  assented  the  enchanter,  "but  the  stars  tell 


A  Boar  of  the  Ardennes  129 

that  ere  nightfall  ye  will  all  be  prisoned  beyond  hope 
of  ransom." 

"Shall  we  bide  in  hiding,"  asked  Richard,  "until  the 
ill-omened  hour  hath  passed?" 

"Nay,  what  is  written  will  be,"  Maugis  replied. 
"Both  Love  and  Death  have  keen  arrows  and  certain 
aim.  It  availeth  naught  to  remain  in  cover  when 
these  huntsmen  roam  the  wild." 

Reynault  shrugged.  "The  old  witling  is  in  his  do- 
tage," he  said  as  he  spurred  away. 

All  day  long  he  hunted  with  a  sore  heart  torn  by 
memories  of  an  hour  when  he  too  would  have  defied 
Death  for  Love. 

Ganelon,  Duke  of  Aigremont,  stood  in  the  great  hall 
of  the  castle.  If  any  haunting  memory  lurked  in  his 
mind  of  another  night  when  he  had  burst  into  this  room 
with  his  pikemen  and  foully  murdered  the  rightful 
duke  it  was  dulled  by  his  intoxication  in  this  supreme 
moment. 

All  of  his  schemes  had  fruited,  his  dreams  come 
true.  Charlemagne  had  come  with  his  court  to  spend 
the  Christmas  tide  with  him,  in  celebration  of  his 
betrothal  with  the  Princess  Erembour,  a  festival  on 
whose  heels  the  marriage  ceremony  would  shortly 
tread. 

Envied  and  feared  by  Paladin  and  Prince,  fawned 
upon   by   Archbishop    Turpin,    accepted    at    last    by 


130  Old  Belgium 

Erembour,  the  most  utterly  trusted  of  all  the  Emperor's 
favourites — what  more  could  he  desire?  And  yet 
Ganelon  coveted  far  more.  The  hand  of  Erembour 
lay  pulseless  within  his  own.  She  shuddered  as  his  hot 
mouth  drank  her  own.  Well  he  knew  that  only  because 
hope  was  dead  had  she  yielded  to  her  father's  com- 
pulsion. Something  in  her  frozen  face  awed  him, 
though  he  did  not  divine  that  she  had  resolved  to 
die  upon  the  steps  of  the  altar  ere  the  priest  should 
pronounce  her  his. 

Nor  was  his  voracious  ambition  sated  by  the  dignity 
of  Seneschal.  Secretly  he  was  engaged  in  fomenting 
with  malcontent  Saxons  the  very  plot  of  which  he  had 
accused  the  uncle  of  the  sons  of  Aymon. 

The  guests  for  whom  the  drawbridge  had  been 
thrown  down  with  such  acclaim  had  scarcely  re- 
tired to  rest  when  Ganelon  descended  to  the  crypt 
to  hold  assignation  with  a  messenger  from  the 
conspirators. 

It  was  on  this  night  while,  still  illumined  from  its 
narrowest  meutriere  to  the  windows  of  the  great 
banqueting-hall,  the  castle  outshone  the  stars,  that 
Guichard  approached  Aigremont.  Though  past  mid- 
night the  chateau  hummed  like  a  hive  with  scurrying 
servitors,  song  of  minstrels,  and  laughter  of  guests. 

Stabling  Bayard  in  an  abandoned  hut  below,  circling 
the  walls,  avoiding  the  great  sally-port,  he  sought  the 
postern.    As  he  proceeded   he  saw   that  fresh  foot- 


A  Boar  of  the  Ardennes  131 

prints  led  to  the  door  which  stood  ajar.  He  listened, 
peeped,  all  was  silent  and  dark  as  the  grave.  Groping 
his  way  past  the  grim  torture-chamber  and  up  a  few 
steps  he  entered  the  Hall  of  Justice.  To  his  alarm  a 
torch  in  a  sconce  at  the  extreme  end  threw  its  flaring 
light  upon  Ganelon  seated  at  the  tribunal.  Before 
him  stood  a  slouching  churl,  not  a  criminal  for 
he  bore  himself  with  a  certain  presumption  not  in 
accord  with  the  meanness  of  his  appearance. 

The  low  vaulted  ceiling  was  supported  by  a  forest 
of  massive  columns;  and  gliding  stealthily  from  one 
to  another,  with  hand  upon  the  hilt  of  his  dagger, 
Guichard  drew  near  the  speakers. 

"I  bring  letters, "  said  the  stranger,  "from  the  Saxon 
leaders  for  Buves,  Duke  of  Aigremont.  Art  thou 
indeed  he?" 

"  I  am  the  Duke  of  Aigremont, "  replied  Ganelon  eva- 
sively. "Give  me  the  letters."  After  perusing  them 
attentively  Ganelon  locked  the  papers  within  a  heavy 
oaken  cabinet  containing  musty  archives  and  records  of 
the  seignory,  then  writing  rapidly  he  affixed  to  his 
missive  the  great  seal  of  Aigremont. 

"  Listen,  Saxon,"  he  said  at  length.  "Ere  you  convey 
this  missive  to  your  masters,  get  you  to  the  Druid 
Wood  east  of  the  Meuse.  There  at  sunset  shalt  thou 
find  the  dead  body  of  Charlemagne,  whose  head  thou 
mayest  carry  to  those  who  sent  thee,  as  earnest  of  my 
good  faith  and  ability  to  aid  them.     The  Emperor's 


132  Old  Belgium 

death  shall  be  followed  by  that  of  the  Princes  and 
Paladins;  and  thereafter  will  I  join  the  Saxon  nobles  as 
herein  set  forth.  Begone;  be  faithful  and  thou  shalt 
be  rewarded." 

Ganelon  turned  and  extinguishing  the  torch  mounted 
a  stairway  to  the  upper  part  of  the  castle.  The  messen- 
ger, lighted  by  the  moon,  which  shone  through  a  grated 
window,  hastened  toward  the  passage.  But  Guichard, 
realizing  the  importance  of  the  documents  which  he 
carried,  was  at  the  door  before  him.  Pausing  at  the 
head  of  the  short  staircase  he  tripped  the  man,  who  fell 
at  the  door  of  the  torture-chamber. 

It  was  but  the  work  of  an  instant  to  transfer  the  letter 
to  the  breast  of  his  own  doublet,  to  fling  the  unconscious 
Saxon  into  the  dungeon,  and  to  draw  bolt  upon  him ;  but 
Guichard's  next  manoeuvre  was  not  so  successful.  Re- 
mounting he  found  that  Ganelon  had  locked  the  door 
leading  from  the  staircase  into  the  Hall  of  Justice  and 
again  descending  that  a  sentry  had  fastened  the  postern 
from  without.     He  also  was  a  prisoner! 

Throughout  what  remained  of  the  night  and  all  of 
the  succeeding  day  he  paced  the  passage  and  various 
cellars  vainly  striving  to  find  some  other  entrance  into 
the  castle  or  to  attract  the  attention  of  its  inmates. 
At  dawn,  through  windows  high  in  the  wall  of  the  Hall 
of  Justice,  he  heard  the  merry  din  of  a  departing  hunt, 
but  his  frantic  shouts  were  drowned  by  the  baying  of 
hounds  and  neighing  and  trampling  of  horses. 


A  Boar  of  the  Ardennes  133 

THE   BOAR-HUNT 

Unwitting  that  black  Death  lurked  imminent  in 
the  white-robed  forest,  Charlemagne  rode  merrily  forth 
to  the  meet. 

Every  casement  and  balcony  of  the  castle  was 
a-flutter  with  scarfs  as  fair  faces  smiled  farewell  and 
fortune  to  the  gallant  huntsmen,  a  blithe  cavalcade 
with  favours  streaming  from  their  javelins,  who  cara- 
coled adown  the  sinuous  road  amid  packs  of  hounds 
straining  at  the  leash,  mingling  their  frantic  baying 
with  the  echoing  blare  of  the  hunting-horns.  Ganelon 
alone  rode  away  taciturn  and  sinister,  neither  receiving 
nor  uttering  farewells. 

All  the  morn  the  huntsmen  proceeded  in  company, 
through  glades  and  gorges  up  the  valley  of  the  Meuse; 
but  though  the  beaters  searched  with  all  diligence 
they  caught  no  sight  of  the  quarry.  Young  boar  they 
glimpsed  rooting  in  the  vales  and  a  herd  of  ' '  sounders  " ; 
but  of  these  Charlemagne  would  have  none. 

The  afternoon  they  encountered  a  wood-cutter  who 
asserted  that  he  had  seen  a  great  boar  in  the  Druid 
Wood.  Thither  they  hastened  and,  coming  upon  a 
slough,  where  swine  had  lately  wallowed,  paused  for 
consultation.  From  this  spot  tracks  led  in  two 
directions.  The  cavalcade  then  divided,  a  great  ma- 
jority taking  to  the  open. 

The  Emperor,  however,  struck  into  a  forest,  Ganelon 


134  Old  Belgium 

holding  back  for  him  the  over-hanging  branches,  but 
letting  them  fly  in  the  face  of  Turpin,  who,  in  high 
dudgeon,  relinquished  the  hunt. 

Nose  to  earth,  lustily  giving  tongue,  coursing  in 
full  career,  doubling  back  in  spirals  on  the  track  of  the 
quarry,  now  seen,  now  lost  to  view,  the  hounds  pressed 
forward  in  hot  pursuit.  Hard  upon  their  heels  sped 
Charlemagne,  his  blood  afire  with  the  lust  of  the  chase. 
He  rang  a  merry  tra-la-lira-la  on  his  horn  as  the  prickers 
unharboured  a  giant  boar. 

"Halt!  Sire,  for  the  love  of  Heaven!"  shouted 
Ganelon,  and  the  Emperor  angrily  drew  rein. 

"In  the  name  of  all  the  saints  in  Hell!"  he  roared, 
"stint  me  not  of  my  prey!" 

"I  needs  must,"  replied  Ganelon,  leaping  from  his 
horse.  Then,  under  pretence  of  tightening,  he  treacher- 
ously cut  the  Emperor's  saddle-girth. 

"The  strap  was  loosened,  sire.  Anon  thou  hadst 
been  unhorsed ! " 

"What  boots  such  trifling?"  growled  Charlemagne. 
"Haste,  lest  we  lose  the  sport!" 

Emerging  from  the  forest  they  galloped  to  a  mead, 
where,  backed  against  a  writhen  oak,  beset  by  a  circlet 
of  clamouring  hounds,  with  foaming  tusk  and  blood- 
shot eye,  bristling  with  rage,  dogged  and  defiant  stood 
at  bay  a  tremendous  boar ! 

Spurring  forward  Charlemagne  struck  the  quarry 
with  his  javelin,  wounding  it  grievously.    The  infuriated 


A  Boar  of  the  Ardennes  135 

beast,  throwing  off  the  onrushing  hounds,  tusking  some 
through  the  vitals,  tossing  others  in  air  to  fall  a  mangled 
mass,  summoned  one  supreme  effort  and  with  lowered 
tusks  charged ! 

Rending  the  jambibre  of  Charlemagne  from  ankle  to 
thigh,  lacerating  the  flank  of  his  steed,  the  boar  rushed 
on  in  blind  fury,  while  the  horse,  unruly  with  fright, 
suddenly  reared,  bursting  the  saddle-girth  and  throwing 
the  rider  heavily  to  earth. 

"A  mon  secours,  Ganelon,  a  moi!"  shouted  Charle- 
magne, then  all  swam  before  him. 

It  seemed,  to  his  delirious  vision,  that  the  boar  had 
whelmed  upon  him,  its  weight  crushing  his  chest.  He 
felt  its  hot  breath  on  his  face  and  its  cloven  hoofs  upon 
his  body.  Why  were  not  its  terrible  tusks  plunged  into 
his  throat?  In  vain  he  struggled  to  free  himself.  Its 
gleaming  tusks  merged  into  a  murderous  knife.  He 
felt  the  chill  blade  against  his  throat!  Slowly  the 
boar's  snout  was  transformed  into  the  malevolent  sneer 
of  Ganelon.  Then  its  eyes  bulged  horribly.  A  flash 
as  of  lightning  fell  and  his  face  was  drenched  in  a 
torrent  of  blood! 

Actions  succeeding  the  fall  of  Charlemagne  cumulated 
so  swiftly  that  he  was  only  conscious  of  a  vague  vision, 
in  which  the  boar  was  confused  with  Ganelon. 

The  latter  had  contrived  this  trap  in  order  that  the 
boar  might  accomplish  the  Emperor's  murder,  and 
deliberately  failed  the  imperiled  Charlemagne  in  his 


136  Old  Belgium 

extremity.  He  would  surely  have  met  his  death  had 
not  Reynault,  hunting  near,  hearing  the  horn,  rushed 
instantly  to  his  assistance.  Arriving  in  the  nick  of 
time  he  hurled  his  javelin  with  so  sure  an  aim  that 
the  charging  boar  fell  dead  at  the  feet  of  the  Emperor. 

Seeing  his  design  thus  balked,  Ganelon  leaped  across 
the  carcass  and  poised  his  great  hunting  knife  over  the 
head  of  the  unconscious  Charlemagne.  But  as  he  was 
about  to  strike  his  arms  were  pinned  in  a  grip  of 
iron. 

It  was  Reynault  who,  leaping  from  hiding,  seized 
his  wrists  as  the  death-blow  was  descending  and, 
wresting  the  knife  from  his  weakened  grasp,  flung  it 
into  the  thicket.  At  grips  like  two  great  tigers,  tearing 
at  one  another's  throats,  knee  to  knee,  chest  to  chest 
they  struggled,  stumbling,  writhing,  clutching  in  lust 
of  blood  and  death.  Suddenly  Ganelon,  by  a  merciless 
blow  of  his  knotted  fist,  felled  his  antagonist  to  earth. 
There  they  grappled,  wallowing  in  the  blood  of  the  boar 
and  over  the  prostrate  Emperor,  each  alternately  upper- 
most, all  but  overcoming  the  other,  till  both  were  spent 
with  exhaustion. 

At  last  Reynault  in  one  desperate  effort  hoisted  his 
opponent  over  his  shoulder  and  hurled  him  lifeless  to 
the  earth! 

The  attempted  crime  and  its  frustration  had  not 
been  unwitnessed.  Turpin,  arriving  on  the  moment, 
with  the  squires,  had  watched  it  with  the  gravest  con- 


A  Boar  of  the  Ardennes  137 

cern;  while  Adelard  and  Richard  rushed  in  as  the 
assassin  writhed  in  his  death-agony. 

Dragging  the  body  aside,  the  squires  flung  it  into  a 
ditch,  while  Reynault  and  his  brothers,  with  tender 
solicitude,  raised  the  Emperor  to  a  sitting  posture. 

"Was  the  boar  despatched?"  asked  Charlemagne, 
still  dazed  from  his  fall. 

"The  beast  was  slain,  sire,"  replied  Turpin,  "by  the 
hand  of  this  stranger.  We  came  in  time  to  behold 
but  not  to  share  in  that  exploit." 

The  Emperor's  eye  wandered  over  the  faces  of  the 
brothers.     "And  Ganelon?"  he  asked. 

"His  grace  hath  spoken,  sire,"  replied  Reynault. 
"'Twas  I  who  slew  that  beast!" 

Charlemagne  nodded  assent.  "Then  it  was  not  a 
dream,"  he  said.     "His  knife  was  at  my  throat?" 

"In  verity,  sire,"  said  Turpin.  "He  would  have 
slain  thee  but  for  this  unknown  friend." 

"  Nay,  not  unknown  to  me, "  exclaimed  the  Emperor. 
"I  owe  thee  my  life,  and  have  long  sought  thee,  Friend 
Reynault.  Come  with  thy  brave  brothers  to  Aigre- 
mont,  where  we  will  keep  the  Christmas  feast  in  com- 
pany, forgetting  all  past  feuds  and  hatreds. 

"Stay  ye,"  he  commanded  the  squires,  "bury  the 
body.  We  would  not  that  the  corse  of  a  malefactor 
lie  like  carrion  to  be  mangled  by  kites  and  wolves;  and 
see  thou,  Turpin,  that  masses  be  said  that  his  soul  find 
peace." 


138  Old  Belgium 

Convinced  of  their  sovereign's  kindly  intent,  the  sons 
of  Aymon  gladly  accompanied  him  to  the  castle, 
enlivening  the  way  by  relating  tales  of  their  thrilling 
adventures. 

As  they  mounted  the  eminence  on  which  towered 
the  castle,  Charlemagne  pointed  to  a  turret  from  which 
the  ladies  were  gazing  and  said  drily:  "'Tis  note  the 
season,  Friend  Reynault,  for  tulips." 

Though  sense  that  Erembour  regarded  him  tingled 
in  every  fibre  of  his  being,  Reynault  would  not  look 
up.  His  brain  burned  with  resentment  and  jealousy. 
Was  she  not  the  bride  of  Ganelon  now  reigning  in  the 
castle  which  by  lawful  right  should  have  been  his  own? 
But  all  else  was  as  naught  compared  with  his  uncon- 
querable love,  which  even  the  conviction  of  her  unfaith 
could  not  vanquish. 

Not  so  distraught  were  Adelard  and  Richard.  They 
marked  the  cordial  bearing  of  the  imperial  suite,  how 
in  the  swimming  pool,  where  the  hunters  refreshed 
themselves,  and  in  the  hall  the  courtiers  vied  with 
each  other  in  attentions  and  knew  that  their  own 
troubles  were  at  an  end. 

One  apprehension  only  disquieted  Richard. 
"Brother,"  he  whispered  to  Adelard,  "I  fear  me 
that  Guichard  hath  met  with  some  mishap." 

"A  fig  for  thy  fears,"  replied  Adelard.  "He  is 
doubtless  disporting  himself  in  his  lady's  bower.  I 
discern    the    mouth-watering    savour    of   roast    boar. 


A  Boar  of  the  Ardennes  139 

The  cook  is  basting  him  with  drippings  seasoned  with 
sage  and  marjoram.  St.  Lawrence  of  the  gridiron 
grant  that  Charlemagne  detain  us  not  until  the  brawn 
be  over-crisped." 

Following  his  nose  the  young  gastronome  betook 
himself  to  the  kitchens,  where  he  found  an  aged  cellarer 
quavering  in  the  buttery  nigh  out  of  his  senses  with 
fear. 

"Is  it  thou  indeed,  my  lord,"  cried  the  servitor,  "or 
see  I  but  a  spirit?" 

"Myself  'tis,  Blaise,  who  would  fain  see  the  spirits 
of  mine  uncle's  wine  cellar,  tombed  in  their  cobwebbed 
coffins." 

Blaise  trembling  protested.  "Only  now  the  butler 
demanded  wine,  but  not  for  all  the  vintages  of  Cham- 
pagne would  I  enter  that  cave  of  hell." 

"Give  me  the  stoup,  thou  chicken-livered  poltroon, 
my  throat  is  parched  with  thirst." 

"Nay,  sweet  Master  Adelard,  stay,  I  beseech  thee. 
Murderous  and  most  ungodsome  howlings  have  rent 
mine  ears.  Yea,  and  trampling  up  and  down  the 
torture-chamber.     Not  by  night  alone  but  all  this  day." 

"Open  in  the  name  of  Our  Lady.  Let  me  forth," 
cried  a  voice  from  the  depths. 

Adelard  wrenched  the  keys  from  Blaise  and,  spring- 
ing through  the  low  doorway,  fell  into  the  arms  of 
Guichard ! 

Wan    with   fasting,    distraught   with  apprehension, 


140  Old  Belgium 

"Tell  me,  Brother,"  he  cried,  "doth  the  Emperor  still 
live?" 

"Yea,  by  succour  of  St.  George  and  Reynault,  he 
hath  scaped  the  knife  of  Ganelon." 

Enthroned  in  the  audience  chamber,  surrounded  by 
the  Princes  and  Paladins,  Charlemagne  was  pondering 
the  purport  of  his  foiled  assassination!  Making  his 
way  brusquely  through  the  ring  of  councillors  Guichard 
knelt  at  the  feet  of  the  Emperor.  "Sire,"  he  cried, 
presenting  the  letter,  "I  bring  thee  proof  of  infamy 
most  foul." 

"My  Lieges,"  exclaimed  Charlemagne,  "here  is 
evidence  which  convicts  Ganelon  of  having  plotted 
not  my  murder  alone  but  the  usurpation  of  mine 
empire!" 

"'Tis  his  script,  sire,"  asserted  Anselm  scrutinizing 
the  missive. 

"Letters  from  the  Saxons  lie  locked  in  the  cabinet 
of  archives,"  said  Guichard.  "The  messenger  who 
brought  them  have  I  fettered  in  the  torture-chamber." 

"Look  to  him,  Anselm,"  the  Emperor  commanded, 
"but  torture  not  the  wretch.  'Tis  the  eve  of  the 
Nativity,  let  all  enmity  be  blotted  from  our  memory. 

"For  the  adroitness  with  which  thou  hast  unearthed 
this  plot,  I  now  confer  upon  thee,  Guichard,  all  the 
dignities  enjoyed  by  glorious  Roland.  Thee,  Rey- 
nault, do  I  create  Seneschal  of  our  Empire!    Adelard 


A  Boar  of  the  Ardennes  141 

and  Richard,  thy  names  shall  adorn  the  roster  of  our 
peerage." 

The  sons  of  Aymon  knelt  before  Charlemagne. 
"Rise  valiant  knights  and  leal,"  he  commanded,  "'tis 
I  should  humble  myself  this  day,  for  that  mind-poi- 
soned by  Ganelon,  I  misthought  your  uncle  a  traitor, 
and  condoned  his  murder.  For  unknowing  compli- 
city in  that  loathly  crime  and  for  connivance  in  the 
siege  of  Dinant  (which  shall  be  rebuilded  at  our  costs), 
Your  Sovereign  craveth  pardon,  and  will  do  what 
penance  Holy  Church  may  ordain. 

"  Nay ,  no  need  of  thanks.  Turn  we  to  merrier  themes. 
The  ladies  come,  without  whom  all  emprise  were 
purposeless  and  vain." 

Thereupon  the  hall  was  murmurous  with  a  twittering 
of  many  thrushes,  as  the  Empress  and  her  ladies- 
in-waiting  fluttered  in,  a  flock  of  brilliant  plumage  and 
melodious  noise.  Greeting  them  with  incidents  of 
the  chase  before  their  mutual  entry  into  the  banquet- 
room,  the  Emperor  followed  by  his  family,  the  twelve 
Paladins,  Archbishop  Turpin,  and  the  sons  of  Aymon 
marched  into  the  great  hall. 

"Qui  estis  in  convivio 
Servite  cum  cantico, 
Reddens  Laudes  Domini!" 

chanted  Turpin  by  way  of  grace;  and  Charlemagne 
turning  to  Reynault  commanded:     "Take  the  citole 


142  Old  Belgium 

from  yon  minstrel  and  while  we  carouse  raise  thou  a 
skald  of  how  ye  slew  the  boar." 

Thus  summoned,   his  rich  bass  resounding  through 
the  vaulted  chamber,  sang  Reynault. 

YE  BALLAD  OF  YE  BOARE 

Through  craggye  fastnesses  of  foreste  glade 
With  blasts  tempestuose  of  hollowe  home, 
Ye  huntsmene  gallope  by  in  cavalcade, 
Ryding  like  wilde  Valkyries  downe  ye  morne. 

Fierclye  ye  bayinge  houndes  ye  scente  pursue 
With  nose  to  earthe  and  swiftlye  flyinge  feete, 
As,  suddene  seene,  then  suddene  loste  to  vieue 
Ye  quarrye  doubles  backe  in  spirals  fleete. 

With  foamynge  tuske  and  evil  flamynge  eyen, 
Rendynge  ye  welkyn  wyde  with  raucus  roare, 
But  scornynge  from  ye  vengeful  dogges  to  flyen 
Brystlynge  with  strength  and  wrath  behold  ye  boare ! 

Then  spede  a  shower  of  shaftes  from  bow-strings  tighte 
And  from  an  hundrede  lungs  is  loosed  a  roare, 
As  spente  and  brethles  from  hys  tortuous  flyghte 
Tremblyng  but  fereles  stands  at  bay  ye  boare! 

Anon  ye  dogges  drive  on  with  laboured  breth 
Onlye  againe  to  fal  in  mangled  gore, 
Tusked  thro  the  entrails  fighting  unto  deth. 
Tossed,  torne,  and  trampled  by  the  frenzied  boare. 

Then  leap  I  from  my  stede,  with  lifted  targe 
And  poise  my  trustie  javelin  stoute  and  keene, 
The  whil  the  baited  brute  on  one  last  charge 
Stakes  al  his  fate  with  dull  and  dogged  mien. 


A  Boar  of  the  Ardennes  143 

As  bounds  a  torrent  in  the  Spryngs  first  floode 
So  flies  my  shafte  of  stele  straight  to  the  core, 
And  reeling  prone  amydst  a  pool  of  blode 
Stryken  to  deth,  sinks  down  ye  tusked  boare! 
Whil  thro  ye  wodelande  wyde  afar  and  nere 
Flutter  fraile  wings  and  flee  affryghted  deere. 

Pleased  by  Reynault's  modesty  in  making  naught 
of  the  rescue  of  his  sovereign,  Charlemagne  joined  in  the 
applause,  but  an  instant  later  as  with  hawk  eyes  he 
swept  the  board.  "Why,  by  all  the  devils  in  Para- 
dise," he  thundered,  "is  the  seat  of  the  Princess 
Erembour  empty?  " 

Ere  he  could  be  answered  he  struck  his  forehead  with 
the  cry:  "God  forgive  me,  I  have  been  so  besotted 
with  mine  own  affairs  that  I  clean  forgot  that  Erembour 
weepeth  her  lover." 

To  her  feet  sprang  Blanchefleur.  "Dearest  Uncle, 
how  you  have  misjudged  my  cousin!  She  weepeth 
not  yon  traitor.     His  death  for  her  is  deliverance." 

"What  mean  you?"  asked  the  astonished  Charle- 
magne. For  answer  Blanchefleur  laid  in  his  hand  the 
stiletto  which  Erembour  was  wont  to  wear  within  her 
hair. 

i  "Uncle  mine,  while  my  cousin  deemed  me  sleeping, 
I  heard  her  beseech  the  Virgin  to  strengthen  her  hand 
to  speed  this  dagger  to  her  heart  if  one  she  loved  came 
not  to  rescue  her  from  that  hated  marriage." 

At  that  word  Reynault  stood  suddenly  erect.     "Jest 


144  Old  Belgium 

not,  lady!"  he  cried.  "Surely  the  Duchess  of 
Aigremont  was  not  wedded  against  her  will." 

"Wedded  hath  she  not  been,"  roared  Charlemagne. 
"Nor  Duchess  of  Aigremont  e'er  shall  be  unless  to  wed 
with  her  is  thine  intent,  since  seignory  and  castle  on 
thee,  Reynault,  Duke  of  Aigremont,  I  now  bestow. 
Waste  not  the  homage  of  thy  lips  upon  my  withered 
hands,  for  see,  one  cometh  with  tulips  for  thy  gathering." 

Between  the  parted  tapestries,  a  hand  on  either 
fold,  stood  Erembour  all  white  save  that  on  her  breast 
glowed  the  crimson  love-tokens.  She  swayed  a  little 
as  Reynault  sprang  toward  her,  then  crushed  them  in 
long  embrace  upon  her  lover's  heart. 

Then  arose  a  tumult  without  the  hall  as  with  blowing 
of  horns,  with  antics  and  buffoonery,  with  shouting  and 
with  laughter  an  immense  yule-log  wound  with  mistletoe 
and  holly  was  rolled  to  the  hearth,  and  having  been  duly 
drenched  with  brandy  of  high  proof,  was  set  aflame  to 
cries  of  "Wassail,  Drink -hail  Le  tisson  de  Noel!" 

Scarcely  had  this  hubbub  ceased  when  the  minstrel 
sounded  a  loud  fanfare  and  the  steward  cried : 

Draw  your  knives !  though  naught  can  harm  us. 
Caput  Apri  def eramus ! 

In  an  enormous  salver  wreathed  with  garlands  of 
rosemary  and  ivy,  borne  upon  the  shoulders  of  four 
serving-men  with  the  utmost  state  and  solemnity, 
came  the  great  boar's  head,  acorns  in  snout;  while  with 


A  Boar  of  the  Ardennes  145 

one  accord  the  whole  assemblage  rose  to   their  feet 
and  carolled  lustily  this  jocund  roundelay : 

WHILE  THE  YULE-LOG  BURNS 

Menne  are  fools  who  love  not  wyne, 
Women,  songe,  they're  al  divyne! 
Fil  with  meade  the  foamynge  stein 

Wassail  ho ! 
Rather  then  than  prate  and  pine 
Let  us  prayse  this  tryad  feyn 

In  a  merrye  rondelaye, 

Whil  the  yule-log  crackles  gaye, 

With  a  hey  nonny,  nonny, 
Hey  nonny  O! 

Welcome  dauncynge,  geste,  and  folye, 

Christmas  bids  us  al  be  jolye. 

Deck  the  halle  with  gleamynge  hollye,  mystletoe. 

Everie  Dick  shal  have  hys  Dollie 

Her  to  eas  his  melancolye. 

Buss  your  sweethearts  whil  ye  maye, 

Whil  the  yule-log  crackles  gay, 

With  a  hey  nonny,  nonny, 
Hey  nonny  O! 

Bring  the  heade  of  the  tusked  swine, 
Carve  the  capon  fatte  and  feyn, 
Tomorrow  dye,  tonighte  we  dine! 

Wassail  ho! 
Fil  wif.h  meade  the  foamynge  stein, 
Draine  the  beakers  redde  with  wyne, 

Feaste  and  laugh  al  care  awaye 

Whil  the  yule-log  crackles  gaye, 

With  a  hey  nonny,  nonny, 
Hey  nonny  O! 


146  Old  Belgium 

Remaineth  only  to  relate  the  espousals  of  Blanche- 
fleur  and  Guichard,  and,  as  this  cheerful  consummation 
hath  been  celebrated  in  one  of  the  most  ancient  of 
French  ballads,  append  we  it  herewith: 

BLANCHEFLEUR 

Of  all  the  sons  of  Aymon  old 

The  comeliest,  blithest,  and  most  bold 

Young  Guichard  was,  of  stature  tall 

Though  but  a  score  of  years  in  all 

Was  yet  of  life  his  total  sum 

When  Love  into  his  heart  had  come. 

He  worshipped  with  a  passion  pure 
The  fair  Blanchefleur,  a  maid  demure, 
And  wooed  her  oft,  all  undismayed 
That  Charlemagne  his  suit  forbade; 
Though  ne'er  in  earth,  or  heaven  above, 
Were  there  two  hearts  so  tuned  to  love. 

The  lovers  moved  to  pity  all 
Who  viewed  them  in  the  castle  hall. 
Pallid  with  grief,  her  fragile  face 
Seemed  a  white  flower  of  ghostly  grace. 
And  her  frail  form  in  ermine  white 
A  miracle  of  heavenly  light ! 

Great  Charles  then  summoned  to  his  throne 

And  Guichard  first  did  question, 

Who  answered  thus !     "By  all  the  powers 

I  solemn  swear,  I  sought  thy  towers 

Without  the  knowing  of  Blanchefleur, 

Thus  I,  not  she,  did  witless  err, 

And  therefore,  since  she  sinned  not,  I, 

Sole  sinner,  thou  shouldst  doom  to  die." 


A  Boar  of  the  Ardennes  147 

Out-cried  Blanchefleur:     "Dear  Uncle  mine, 
For  me  alone  did  Guichard  pine, 
For  love  of  me,  a  poor  white  flower, 
He  clomb  the  stairway  of  thy  tower, 
Then  doom  him  not  to  death  for  me 
But  bid  me  die  and  set  him  free!" 

To  this  the  King :     "  Now,  by  the  Lord, 

Ye  both  shall  I  put  to  the  sword!" 

Swift  springs  Blanchefleur  the  blade  beneath, 

But  Guichard  plucks  her  back  from  death. 

"A  man  am  I,  and  't  were  my  shame, 

If  thou  should'st  die,  a  helpless  dame!" 

Then  first  to  die  each  one  did  strive, 

Whilst  all  the  throng  cried:  "Let  them  live!" 

"Since,"  quoth  the  King,  "each  fool  doth  crave 

A  death  which  would  the  other  save, 

Forever  both  I  now  condemn 

To  life-long  death!     Monk,  marry  them!"1 

1  Adapted  from  Marie  de  France  and  Dean  Carrington. 


CHAPTER  V 

A  TALE  OF  TALES :     THE  HERMIT'S  CRUSADE 


YE  FEASTE 

(Transcribed  from  Walter  Scott) 

They  sounde  ye  pipe,  they  strik  ye  stringe, 
They  daunce,  they  revelle,  and  they  singe 
Til  ye  rude  turretes  shak  and  ringe. 
Pages  with  readye  blade  wer  ther, 
Ye  myghtie  meale  to  carve  and  share: 
O'er  caponne,  heron-shaw,  and  crane, 
And  princelye  peacocke's  gilded  traine, 
O'er  ptarmigan  and  venisonne 
Ye  Hermite  spak  his  benison. 
Ther  clanging  bowles  olde  warriors  quaffed, 
Loudlye  they  spoke  and  loudlye  laughed; 
Whispered  yonge  knyghtes  in  tone  more  milde 
To  ladyes  fayre,  and  ladyes  smiled. 
Ye  hooded  hawke,  highe  perched  on  beme, 
Ye  clamour  joined  with  whistling  screme, 
And  napped  her  winges,  and  shook  her  bells, 
In  concerte  with  ye  stagge-hounde's  yells. 
Ronde  go  ye  flaskes  of  ruddye  wyn 
From  Champagne,  Burgundie,  and  Rhein; 
Her  task  ye  busye  sewers  ply 
And  alle  is  mirthe  and  revelry. 
148 


f 

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CO 


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5 


- 

O 


53  .2*  o 

CO  tvj  -^ 

O  tq'g 

£  -  & 

*«  «  i? 

°  a  Z. 

C  -~    a 

•2,  O     3 

a  ."2  "2 


The  Hermit's  Crusade  149 

IKE  an  ebon  falcon  hanging  above  a  brood  of  white, 
-L-/  cowering  doves  the  great  keep  of  Chateau  Bouillon 
swooped  over  the  huddled  hamlet.  Today  it  droops 
with  clipped  wing,  sheathed  claw,  and  broken  beak, 
supine  and  powerless,  a  gaunt  skeleton  of  the  ancient 
war-hawk.  In  the  ninth  month  of  the  year  of  our 
Lord  one  thousand  one  hundred  and  one,  Bouillon 
was  a  very  eagle  of  a  fortalice,  terrible  alike  to  tear  its 
foes  or  protect  its  vassals  and  vavasours. 

From  tower-topped  crag,  from  bourg  and  village  had 
the  Crusaders  ridden  forth,  their  lands  mortgaged  to 
furnish  arms  and  followers.  Never  so  willingly  had 
the  villeins  deserted  field  or  the  burghers  quitted 
mart.  A  thousand  horse  and  two  thousand  foot  had 
espoused  the  cause,  under  the  good  Duke  Godefroy  de 
Bouillon,  who,  with  his  brothers  Baldwin  and  Eustace, 
was  the  foremost  to  bear  his  banner  'gainst  the  Saracen. 

How  the  welkin  had  rung  with  "God  wills  it!  God 
wills  it!"  as  they  marched  to  join  the  Dukes  of  Verman- 
dois,  Blois,  and  Normandy ;  until  the  stream  was  swelled 
to  a  torrent  by  Raymond,  Bohemond,  and  Tancred. 

At  the  period  we  now  chronicle  the  Crusade  was 
ended.  A  truce,  not  of  good  will  but  of  utter  exhaus- 
tion, had  descended  upon  all  Christendom;  since  what 
time  her  knights  trooped  with  such  alacrity  at  call  of 
Peter  the  Hermit  to  deliverance  of  the  sainted  Sepulchre. 
During  the  last  decade  there  had  been  no  mustering 
of  the  tempestuous  hordes  of  Bouillon  either  for  defence 


150  Old  Belgium 

or  foray  and  all  was  peace  in  the  vast  forest  of  the 
Ardennes. 

Women  toiled  in  fields,  blew  bellows  in  the  smithy, 
butchered  beeves  in  the  shambles,  and  garrisoned  the 
chateau  of  the  Lady  Yolande.  Before  his  demise  her 
sire  had  acquired  the  seigneury  of  Sir  Godef  roy ;  and  well 
he  recked  that,  though  his  worshipful  daughter  might 
readily  administer  the  domain  in  time  of  peace,  much 
disorder  would  ensue  when  the  bands  of  wolfish  ma- 
rauders returned  empty-handed  to  their  impoverished 
fiefs.  Foreseeing  the  perils  of  a  dame  seule  unprotected 
by  a  powerful  mate,  he  had  striven  in  his  will  to  assure 
her  a  fitting  defender.  To  all  neighbouring  seigneurs 
he  had  conveyed  rescripts  of  his  testament,  soliciting 
their  presence  at  Bouillon  upon  his  daughter's  coming 
of  age. 

The  fortress  was  astir  from  moat  to  turret.  In  the 
bailey,  grooms  were  stabling  the  horses  of  belated 
arrivals.  From  the  great  hall  arose  the  laughter  of 
guests  mingled  with  clatter  of  servitors.  Presently 
the  clamour  ceased  and  a  savory  odour  ascended,  in- 
cense-like, proclaiming  that  the  feast  was  spread. 

The  knights  lusted  to  set  knife  to  the  steaming 
viands;  but  still  the  Lady  Yolande  gazed  from  the 
battlements  upon  the  autumn  sunset. 

Forest  after  forest,  a  motley  of  bright  russets  and 
vivid  red,  trailed  tattered  tapestries  in  the  rosy  glow. 
Amethystine  ranges  climbed  one  another  in  endless 


The  Hermit's  Crusade  151 

vista  to  jagged  peaks,  whose  snow-crowned  summits 
were  cut  sharp  against  the  lucent  sky.  Wistfully  her 
eyes  scanned  the  lonely  road,  as  one  no  longer  expect- 
ant, but  unreconciled  to  disappointment.  Despite 
her  lowering  brows  the  young  chatelaine  was  beauteous 
beyond  desire.  The  toss  of  her  proud  head,  like  that 
of  an  Arab  colt,  denoted  wilfulness  and  temper;  but 
her  eyes  were  a  tender  bluish  jade.  Stern  or  lovesome, 
by  turns,  vividly  intense  in  each  varying  mood,  the  soul 
of  Yolande  was  a  quivering  flame  in  a  chalice  of  snow. 

"Hast  given  me  all  the  names?"  she  questioned  of 
a  doting  dowager  at  her  side. 

"All!  What  wouldst  thou  more,  my  daughter? 
Here  are  a  score  of  gallant  knights,  lords  of  wide  do- 
main, and  the  great  Duke  Robert  of  Normandy.  Are 
these  not  fit  for  any  maid  to  choose  among?" 

"One  would  suffice,  were  he  the  man  of  my  heart," 
replied  Yolande;  "but  of  all  these  will  I  none." 

"Thou  ungrateful  child,  there  remaineth  naught  but 
the  cloister.  Thus  readeth  thy  father's  testament: 
'If  at  her  majority  my  daughter,  Yolande,  hath  not 
chosen  a  husband: — then  shall  all  mine  estates,  of 
which  I  die  seized  and  possessed;  real  and  personal, 
castles,  domains,  farms,  forests,  quarries,  goods  and 
chattels,  lands  and  heredits,  with  all  interests  and  ap- 
purtenances of  whatsoever  nature,  quality,  and  descrip- 
tion, pass,  by  execution  of  such  conveyances  as  are 
proper,  to  the  feofdom  of  the  archbishopric  of  Liege: 


152  Old  Belgium 

save  and  excepting  a  moitie  of  the  usufruct  of  my 
arable  lands  with  such  funds  and  commodities  herein- 
after disposed  by  Codicil  A,  to  be  vested  in  whatsoever 
nunnery  wherein  my  aforesaid  daughter  Yolande  shall 
elect  to  make  profession.'  " 

"A  sore  condition,"  cried  Yolande,  "which  runs 
more  trippingly  from  thy  tongue  than  from  my  de- 
sires, seeing  it  liketh  me  not  a  cloistered  life." 

"Thy  father  purposed  for  thy  safety;  for  ere  he 
died  was  Jerusalem  delivered  and  the  Crusaders  were 
coming  back  to  seek  new  spoil." 

"All  have  not  yet  returned,"  mused  Yolande,  with 
a  quiver  of  the  lip. 

"Ay,  ruth  it  is,"  responded  her  mother,  "that  many 
of  the  best  lie  deep  beneath  the  dust  of  Palestine.  We 
know  not  if  the  three  brothers  reared  in  this  castle 
still  live.  We  only  know  they  have  not  come,  so 
make  no  vain  account  of  them." 

The  shrewd  old  woman  had  rightly  divined,  for  the 
thoughts  of  Yolande  were  busy  with  the  brothers  of 
Bouillon.  With  Godefroy  the  chivalrous,  of  whom  it 
was  said,  "In  war  he  was  his  father,  in  religion  his 
mother";  with  burly  Baldwin,  sitting  his  sable  stallion 
as  though  they  were  a  statue,  feared  by  all  and  loved 
by  none;  with  slender  Eustace,  a  scholar  from  Neu- 
montier  but  rife  of  mischief  as  a  monkey. 

Since  girlhood  Yolande  had  known  them  all.  Gode- 
froy she  revered,  Baldwin  she  had  dreaded,  and  Eustace 


The  Hermit's  Crusade  153 

she  had  loved.  She  felt  herself  a  usurper  in  their 
hereditary  home,  and  preserved  the  belongings  of  each 
exactly  as  he  had  left  them.  Old  tomes  of  Godefroy's 
cluttered  the  shelves  of  his  sanctum.  Ofttimes  she 
fingered  them  with  childlike  wonder,  striving  to  read 
his  thoughts  between  the  long  Latin  lines,  as  a  devoted 
hound  follows  his  master  through  a  tangled  forest. 
The  boar-spear  and  hunting-horn  of  Baldwin  hung 
disregarded  in  the  great  hall;  but  she  had  taken  the 
theorbo  of  Eustace  to  her  own  bower,  there  to  strum 
the  albas,  serenas,  and  rondeaus  which  he  was  wont 
to  sing.  "Ah  me,"  she  sighed,  "shall  e'er  I  hear  his 
blithe  voice  ring  again?" 

Even  as  she  questioned  she  descried  two  strange 
travellers  winding  up  the  long  white  road. 

The  first,  mounted  upon  a  grey  mule,  she  recognized 
from  his  habit  as  a  pilgrim  returning  from  the  Holy 
Land ;  but  the  second  intrigued  her  curiosity. 

He  could  scarcely  be  a  knight,  for  neither  glint  of 
armour  nor  flutter  of  pennon  flashed  in  the  sunset, 
while  the  steed  which  he  bestrode  was  no  caparisoned 
destrier,  but  a  lean  Rozinante  whose  very  ribs  could  be 
numbered.  Sorry  as  the  nag  seemed  it  neighed  joyously 
as  it  sniffed  the  good  provender  in  the  stables  of  Bouillon. 
Its  rider,  scarce  more  bravely  accoutred,  was  clad  in 
russet  fustian  topped  by  a  cap  with  a  scarlet  feather; 
and  a  long-necked  viol,  slung  across  his  shoulder, 
proclaimed  him  but  a  vagrant  troubadour. 


154  Old  Belgium 

Even  so,  monk  and  minstrel  were  most  welcome 
guests  of  the  Lady  Yolande;  their  lays  and  tales  would 
assuredly  prove  diverting  and  perchance  one  or  the 
other  might  bring  tidings  of  Eustace. 

Yolande  descended  hastily  to  the  hall  to  discover 
that  her  unpretentious  pilgrim  was  the  illustrious  Peter 
the  Hermit,  en  route  to  his  abbey  of  Neumoutiers, 
from  the  famed  Crusade  which  he  had  led  to  so  glorious 
an  end.  He  was  uproariously  greeted  by  the  entire 
assemblage,  the  chatelaine  graciously  assigning  him 
the  place  of  honour,  while  she  seated  Duke  Robert 
of  Normandy  at  her  left,  the  remainder  according 
to  their  rank,  with  the  troubadour  at  the  lower  end  of 
the  board. 

Conspicuous  among  them  was  the  mighty  bulk  of 
Samson  de  la  Marcke,  cousin  of  Yolande,  whose  estates 
touched  her  own.  He  regarded  Duke  Robert  with 
sudden  jealousy  and  cast  about  in  his  dull  brain  for 
some  innuendo  which  might  discredit  him.  His  oppor- 
tunity came  when  the  latter,  with  easy  familiarity, 
claimed  kinship. 

"Yea,"  quoth  Samson,  "thy  father  wedded  our 
cousin  Matilda,  daughter  of  Baldwin  of  Flanders. 
A  gentle  manner  of  wooing  had  he  forsooth,  since, 
when  she  disdained  his  suit,  he  rolled  the  lady  in  the 
mire!" 

"And  yet,  despite  that  mishandling,  she  wedded 
him, "  said  Robert  drily. 


The  Hermit's  Crusade  155 

"Right  were  they  both,"  Yolande  asserted,  "for 
William,  rightly  yclept  the  Conqueror,  chastised  her 
for  naughty  words  spoken  against  his  mother.  My 
cousin  also  justified  him  and  herself  when  she  declared, 
'  None  other  will  I  have  for  husband,  for  a  man  who  so 
well  defends  his  mother  will  know  how  to  protect  his 
wife.'" 

"We  brook  no  wooing  after  the  manner  of  Normandy 
here,"  grumbled  Samson,  certain  that  he  saw  in  this 
defence  of  the  father  an  overweening  preference  for  the 
son.  This  were  not  strange,  for  Robert  o'ertopped 
them  both  in  rank  and  person. 

The  other  suitors  were  cadet  brothers  of  Crusaders, 
too  young  to  have  shared  the  glory  of  the  holy  war,  or 
pusillanimous  elders  like  Samson  o'erheedful  of  their 
wealth  and  their  safety.  Voicing  their  feeling  the  latter 
protested  loudly  that  he  saw  no  reason  why  any  man 
should  fight  save  for  plunder,  in  which  the  Crusaders 
had  come  off  but  poorly. 

"Nay,"  protested  Peter,  "should  then  the  sainted 
sepulchre  have  been  left  the  scoff  of  Infidels?  Knowest 
thou  not,  ere  this  Crusade,  when  Fulk  Nerra  of  Anjou 
went  on  pilgrimage,  the  Saracens  would  in  no  wise 
suffer  him  to  enter  that  most  sacred  place  until  he 
had  insulted  the  tomb  wherein  the  Lord  lay? 
Thereupon  in  sight  of  the  Paynims  he  bit  off  a  piece 
of  the  rock;  and  what  they  construed  an  insult  he 
reconciled  to  his  conscience  as  an  act  of  adoration, 


156  Old  Belgium 

since  lips  which  had  received  the  body  of  our  Lord  in  the 
holy  communion  need  not  hesitate  to  kiss  his  tomb." 

"Better  were  it,"  grumbled  the  stay-at-home  Sam- 
son, "if  Fulk  had  kept  his  lips  from  those  of  wenches, 
then  would  his  conscience  not  have  driven  him  to 
pilgrimage." 

"Fie,  cousin  Samson!"  exclaimed  the  dowager. 
"Bridle  thy  too  mettlesome  tongue,  since  noble  dames 
grace  our  hospitality." 

The  warning  was  timely  for  among  these  ladies  was 
the  prudish  Abbess  of  the  Convent  of  Seven  Dolours, 
who  had  come  trusting  to  purvey  to  her  nunnery  a 
portion  of  the  dowry  of  Yolande,  even  though  she 
might  not  persuade  the  fair  chatelaine  to  renounce  an 
earthly  bridegroom  for  heavenly  espousals. 

The  repast  having  been  sped  with  discourse  both 
grave  and  gay,  the  guests  gathered  about  the  great 
hooded  fireplace,  whose  lambent  flames  set  monstrous 
shadows  dancing  'mongst  the  trophies  of  venery  which 
decked  the  wall.  Drowsy,  hooded  falcons,  en  perche, 
shook  their  silver  bells  as  though  dreaming  of  the 
morrow's  flight.  Gaunt,  shaggy  boar-hounds,  yawn- 
ing, stretched  themselves  upon  wolf-skins  before  the 
hearth.  A  babble  of  laughing  badinage  rippled  over 
the  company,  dying  into  a  hush  as  the  fair  chatelaine 
heralded  a  feast  of  song  and  minstrelsy. 

To  the  accompaniment  of  vibrant  viol  and  amorous 
lute  thus  sang  Yolande : 


The  Hermit's  Crusade  157 

PROLOGUE 

Then  telle  a  tale  or  sing  a  songe  tonight 

Of  maiden  faire  and  parfite  gentil  knyghte, 

Of  bold  bataille  in  parlous  fer  contree, 

Of  marvel,  heathenesse  and  vilanye, 

Of  necromancer,  ghoule  and  evil  spryte, 

Legende  of  saint  and  playnt  of  haples  wyghte; 

So  shal  we  have,  in  spoken  pictures,  sighte 

Of  highe  Romance  and  ancient  chivalrye. 

Then  telle  a  tale! 

Whil  we,  before  the  fire-log  burning  bryghte, 

Forget  the  colde  and  darkness  and  the  flyghte 

Of  laggard  Time,  in  dremes  of  faierie, 

The  dayes  dull  cares  in  songe  and  swete  delight. 

Then  telle  a  tale ! 

Yolande  addressed  her  refrain  to  the  troubadour, 
who,  regarding  her  meaningly,  asked:  "Fair  lady, 
since  I  come  but  late  from  the  Crusade  my  mind  runneth 
most  thereon.  Is  there  mayhap  a  knight  of  whose 
emprise  thou  wouldst  hear?" 

The  demoiselle  averted  her  face  that  its  quickened 
rose  might  not  be  remarked;  but  while  her  riotous 
heart  sang  within  her,  "Eustace,  tell  me  of  Eustace," 
her  lips  murmured  demurely:  "There  is  but  one  of 
whom  I  fain  would  hear,  the  worshipful  Sire  Godefroy; 
and  meet  it  were  we  should  laud  his  valour  in  this  his 
dwelling.  Therefore  stint  thee  not,  good  ministrel,  but 
sing." 

"Methinks,"  he  replied,  "I  might  relate  somewhat 


158  Old  Belgium 

not  known  of  every  idle  ballad-singer.  Wouldst  learn 
imprimis  why  Sire  Godefroy  for  land  unknown  forsook 
his  own?" 

"Ay,  ay!"  answered  all  the  assemblage,  "the  more  if 
it  concerneth  love,  for  none  hath  linked  his  name  with 
womankind." 

Whereupon  the  ministrel,  touching  his  viol  with 
plaintive  chords,  sang: 

THE  QUESTE 

Crusader,  who  for  lande  unknowne 

Forsak'st  thine  owne, 

Wherfor,  sadde  herte, 

On  pilgrymage  and  holie  strife 

Forswearinge  life, 

Dost  thou  departe? 

What  griefe  now  shrouddes  this  blythesome  worlde 

With  gloom  enfurled, 

Thy  joye  a  woe, 

Love  deade  within  thy  herte  so  soone? 

Sooner  renowne 

To  deathe  shall  go ! 

Crusader  who  for  lande  unknowne 

Forsak'st  thine  owne, 

Wherfor  sadde  herte 

Goest  thou  hence?     " Entombed  for  aye 

My  love  to  laye 

Do  I  departe!"1 

1  Transcribed  from  Alfred  de  Musset. 


The  Hermit's  Crusade  159 

The  troubadour  fretted  his  lute-strings,  then 
regarding  his  hostess  earnestly,  asked:  "By  your  lief, 
fair  lady,  shall  I  recount  the  reason  of  his  going?" 

Yolande  caught  her  breath  in  pain,  then  assenting, 
bowed  her  head.  "Listen  gentles  all,"  she  said,  "to 
The  Tale  of  the  Troubadour."     Sang  the  minstrel: 

Listeth,  goode  knyghtes  and  ladyes  belles, 

And  hearkeneth  unto  me, 

A  tale  anon  I  will  ye  telle 

Of  tourneyment  and  chivalrye 

And  sore  bataille  beyonde  the  see 

Where  did  Sire  Godefroy  dwelle. 

The  lord  he  was  of  grete  contree, 
In  Flaunders  and  Ardennes  wilde, 
Forestes,  where  beastes  of  venerye 
Harde  by  hys  fortalice  didde  hide. 
Both  bucke  and  boare  he  baited  sore 
With  hondes  fulle  a  triple  score 
And  eke  of  stedes  to  ride. 
In  soothe,  he  was  a  gentil  knight, 
Of  that  Sheik,  Soldan,  Marmaluke, 
Pope,  Emperor  and  comrade  Duke, 
Bear  witness  to  his  might. 

And  so  befel,  upon  a  day, 

Dim  in  the  bosky  glade, 

Sire  Godefroy,  on  a  palfrey  grey 

Espied  a  gentil  mayde, 

Flying  her  falchon  for  the  prey, 

In  robe  of  silke  arrayed. 

The  demoiselle,  yclepte  Yolande,. 

A  chatelaine  was  she 


160  Old  Belgium 

Of  acres  broad  of  fertile  londe 
Ajoint  his  seigneurie, 
Beloved  by  all  her  valiant  band 
Of  vassals,  serfs  and  free. 

Sire  Godefroy  fell  in  love-longinge 
When  first  he  glimpsed  her  face, 
Within  his  heart,  a  voice  didde  singe 
Full  of  such  sweete  solace; 
Beseemed  he  saw  no  mortal  thinge, 
So  elf -like  was  her  grace. 

His  goode  stede  he  priketh  sore 
Fast  through  the  foreste  greene, 
Until  his  flanke  with  foam  and  gore 
All  red  and  white  was  seene. 
While  Godefroy  by  his  Saviour  swore, 
"This  mayde  shall  be  my  queene." 

"Fair  lady,"  quoth  Sire  Godefroy  low, 

"So  have  I  hope  in  Heaven, 

Thy  beautie  moves  my  beinge  so 

That  I  for  thee  would  dyen. 

'  Virginia  est  confusio, ' — 

The  meaninge  of  this  Latyn  line, 

Thou  art  my  joy  and  alle  my  woe." 

But  in  the  middle  of  this  stanza  the  troubadour 
was  suddenly  interrupted  by  Samson  de  la  Marcke : 

"Enough  of  ryme  and  Romayn  speeche.  It  likes 
me  not,  Sir  Troubadour,  to  go  on  longen  pilgrimages 
nor  e'en  to  list  on  longen  psalmodies." 

"Good  ministrel,"  said  Yolande,  "right  seemly  is 
thy  song;  I  pray  thee  stint  it  not  but  sing." 


The  Hermit's  Crusade  161 

"Gladly  would  I  do  so,"  quoth  the  troubadour, 
setting  down  his  viol,  "but  since  our  friend  will  none 
of  the  ripple  of  ryme,  him  will  I  humour,  though  in  my 
dogerel  is  no  vilanye,  and  tell  the  remainder  in  prose." 

(The  minstrel  resumeth  his  Tale.) 

"Well  spake  Sire  Godefroy,  that  this  mayde,  who 
seemed  so  simple  swete,  was  doomed  to  be  his  joy  and 
eke  his  woe!  She  gave  him  of  her  love  and  in  token 
thereof,  a  jacinth,  such  as  one  might  wear,  a  signet 
in  a  ring;  but  so  sacred  did  Godefroy  it  esteem  that 
he  caused  the  stone  to  be  set  in  the  centre  of  the  crosse 
which  hilted  his  sworde,  and  so  he  rode  away  to  do 
grete  deedes  for  her  sake.  But  all  the  whiles  she  had 
in  falsest  guile  plighted  secret  troth  with  another." 

At  this  the  Demoiselle  Yolande  went  white  with 
anger,  but  ere  she  could  muster  her  speech  the  hand  of 
Samson  fell  heavily  upon  the  table,  making  the  glasses 
ring  like  a  carillon  of  bells. 

"Lying  ballad  monger!"  he  bellowed,  "if  thou 
earnest  here  to  dishonour  my  kinswoman,  by  the  body  of 
God  I  will  souse  thee  in  the  moat  and  scour  the  court- 
yard with  thy  filthy  hide!" 

But  the  wrath  in  Yolande  ebbed  as  quickly  as  it 
had  risen,  and  encountering  the  steadfast  gaze  of  the 
minstrel  her  eyes  fell. 

"  Patience,  sweet  cousin,"  she  pled  with  quivering  lips, 

"here  is  some  strange  mis  judgment,  for  he  telleth  all 

awry.     Since  it  concerneth  my  sacred  faith,  therefore 
ii 


162  Old  Belgium 

will  I  tell  the  tale  aright,  even  most  holy  Father  as 
though  I  made  confession  unto  thee." 
Recounteth  then  Yolande 

THE    CHATELAINE'S   TALE 

"The  maiden,  seeing  Godefroy  in  such  piteous  plight, 
made  answer  full  sadly:  'Sir  Knight,  since  Christe's 
tomb  suffereth  dishonour,  shame  'twere  if  love  of 
mortal  maid  should  make  thee  sheathe  thy  sword.  I 
come  from  hearing  the  blessed  Herniit  preach.  A 
crusade  gathereth  he  of  all  who  will  Jerusalem  de- 
liver. Behold  this  rosary;  its  beads  are  jacinths, 
wrought  in  the  Holy  City.  Upon  it  I  pray  for  the 
triumph  of  the  Christian  hostes  and  for  souls  of  those 
who  fall  in  the  sacred  cause.' 

"Quoth  Sire  Godefroy  'Since  I  go  upon  this  quest, 
may  it  not  be  as  thy  pledged  knight,  and  thou  wilt 
wait  and  wed  me,  if  so  be  I  return?' 

" '  That  were  indeed  great  honour,'  replied  the  mayde, 
'but  it  may  not  be.' 

"'Why,  then,  Heart  of  my  Soul,'  he  demanded, 
'lovest  thou  another?' 

"With  that  the  mayde  let  fall  her  eyes:  "Twas  mine 
own  secret,  but  sin  no  other  word  will  let  thee  from  thy 
purpose,  know  thou  hast  rightly  divined.' 

"Then  trembled  Sire  Godefroy,  as  though  suddenly 
wounded,  and  silence  fell  upon  the  twain.     But  ere 


The  Hermit's  Crusade  163 

long  he  spake  again:  'Fair  mayde,  if  for  love's  sake 
I  may  not  wear  thy  favour  on  my  helm,  grant  me,  out 
of  thy  great  pity,  one  bead  from  thy  rosary,  that  its 
empty  place  may  mind  thee  to  murmur  a  prayer  for 
me.' 

"'Take  thou  the  bead,'  she  said,  'and  this  my  kiss.' 
And  thus  they  parted." 

There  was  quiet  for  a  space,  then  drew  the  Lady  Yo- 
lande  the  rosary  from  her  bosom. 

"Here  hath  the  rosary  made  its  shrine,"  she  said, 
"save  when  I  pray.  Here  shall  it  rest  until  a  greater 
love  shall  draw  it  from  its  sanctuary.  One  kiss  and 
one  bead  gave  I  Sire  Godefroy,  but  he  to  whom  I  give 
the  rosary  shall  have  all." 

"Lady,"  cried  the  troubadour,  "I  repent  me  that 
I  did  thee  wrong;  but  knowing  how  Sire  Godefroy 
for  thy  sake  cherished  the  bead,  I  misdeemed  ye 
plighted." 

"Of  light  avail  is  thy  misdeeming,"  replied  Yolande; 
"but  tell  me  in  what  manner  thou  didst  come  by  thy 
fable." 

"Lady,  his  squire  was  I.  With  me  he  deigned  to 
share  his  inmost  memories." 

"Thy  master,  squire,  confided  all  to  thee?" 

"In  his  waking  hours  he  breathed  no  word  of  thee, 
for  that  'he  was  a  parfite  gentil  knight,'  but  in  his 
slumber  thy  name  was  oft  upon  his  lips." 

"What  spake  he  when  sleep  unlocked  his  lips?" 


164  Old  Belgium 

"In  honour  this  may  I  not  reveal.  Eustace  alone 
might  claim  that  right  since  that  he  loved  thee  but 
believed  thee  faithless." 

"Too  patient  art  thou,  sweet  cousin,"  cried  de  la 
Marcke.  "Out  with  him!  Who  is  this  cur  who  doth 
so  disparage  thee  with  prating  of  rights?  What  of 
love  had  Eustace  to  flaunt  before  these  honourable 
suitors?" 

"Who  is  he  indeed?"  Robert  of  Normandy  asked 
of  his  jester,  "and  where  have  I  seen  this  jaunty  cox- 
comb?    Is  it  Eustace  himself  think  you?" 

The  demoiselle's  voice  cut  like  a  sword.  "No  right 
had  Eustace  based  on  word  or  deed;  since,  though  my 
girlish  fancy  fluttered  to  him  who  played  upon  all 
women's  hearts,  yet  he  guarded  well  that  there  should 
be  no  exchange  of  troth.  I  also  in  my  innocence 
guarded  mine  honour,  unsullied  and  unforsworn.  Such 
affection  as  I  gave  him  he  hath  long  forfeited  and  I 
have  long  forgotten.  An  he  loved  me  still  he  would 
not  have  deemed  me  false." 

"Thou  speakest  sooth,"  said  de  la  Marcke.  "An  he 
love  thee  he  would  be  here  upon  this  day  of  days.  Is 
not  his  name,  Sir  Notary,  among  those  to  whom  bidding 
was  sent?" 

"Yea,"  replied  the  man  of  law,  "but  of  where  he 
bideth  I  had  no  knowledge." 

1    The  jester  whispered  to  his  master,  "Probe  him," 
and  the  Duke  said :    "  Nor  hath  any  man  seen  Eustace, 


The  Hermit's  Crusade  165 

since  he  deserted  the  Crusade  for  the  arms  of  the  sorcer- 
ess Armide." 

"A  proper  one  art  thou,  Robert,  to  slander  that  brave 
knight,  thou  who  forsookest  the  siege  of  Antioch,"  said 
the  troubadour. 

The  Duke's  hand  was  on  his  sword.  "Now  by  the 
Holy  Sepulchre,"  he  cried,  "if  thou  wert  of  mine  own 
rank  thou  shouldst  cross  swords  with  me." 

"Softly,  shed  not  blood!"  cried  Yolande,  stepping 
adroitly  between.  "Nay  Robert,  tell  thy  tale  of  the 
fickle  Eustace,  which  thou,  Sir  Troubadour,  mayst 
answer  if  thou  canst." 

"My  fool  shall  tell  it,"  muttered  Robert,  "for  'twas 
the  common  gossip  of  the  camp.  As  for  me,  I  mingle 
not  with  minstrels  or  their  romances." 

Flourishing  his  bauble  with  a  "Grammercye,  Ladye 
fair,  and  you  my  noble  lords,"  the  jester  pranced  into 
the  circle,  and  began : 

THE  JESTER'S  TALE 

1 

A  mayde  ther  was  inne  Palestyne 
Yclept  Armyde,  the  legendes  telle, 
Who  regned  o'ere  Damascus  Quene, 
As  faire  as  Heven,  as  false  as  Helle. 

Pereles  in  alle  deceipts  was  she, 

Of  teres  and  laughter  hadde  she  ken, 

The  subtil  wiles  of  wytcherie, 

And  guile  of  love  that  conquers  menne. 


166  Old  Belgium 

Whilom  the  wyde  champaign  she  soughte 
Wher  Godefroy  hadde  hys  campe  'y  pight; 
Then  pondered  sore  eche  doughty  knyghte 
What  mote  her  ben  and  whence  'y  broughte. 

For  non  hadde  eyed  so  faire  a  face, 
Beseemed  a  goddes  from  the  sea, 
Al  made  of  love  and  elfyn  grace, 
Rose,  as  among  hem  passed  she: 

Unto  the  duke's  imperiale  tente, 

A  boone  to  begge  on  bended  knee, 

In  rustlynge  silkkes  her  steppes  her  bente 

And  softly  him  addressed  she: 

"O  myghtie  Prince,  in  me  you  see, 
Of  lande  and  kyngdoume  dispossesst, 
A  hapless  mayde  in  miserie, 
Unjustlie  used  and  sore  opprest. 

"The  bas  usurper  of  my  thron 
Hath  domed  me  thus  to  wander  Ion. 
Do  thou,  al  powerful,  righteous  Lorde, 
Wreke  vengeaunce  on  hym  with  thy  swerd!" 

Spak  Godefroy:  "Gentil  mayde,  we  com 
To  free  for  Christe  hys  sacred  tombe, 
And  pitye  'twere  if  for  a  dame 
Thys  queste  forsooke  I  to  my  shame." 

Then  from  her  eyen  feigned  teres 
Rained  lik  grete  perles  adown  her  dresse, 
And  pity  softened  al  the  peers, 
But  Godefroy  bided  pitylesse. 


The  Hermit's  Crusade  167 

Quoth  Eustace,  moved  by  her  looke, 

"Let  not  so  brave  a  chevisaunce 

By  us  unworthie  be  forsooke, 

But  holp  the  mayde  with  swerd  and  lance!" 

And  al  the  reste  acclaimed  his  worde, 
Eke  swore  her  champioun  to  be. 
With  that  she  smiled  againe  to  see 
How  she  enslaved  ech  trustynge  lorde. 

And  to  ech  lordling  she  didde  saye: 
"Withouten  thee  lyfe  were  dismaye." 
Whil  Godefroy  smiled  to  see  befooled 
Hys  armed  menne,  unarmed  Armyda  ruled. 

"The  love  of  Armyde,  sorceresse, 
Shal  'vail  ye  noughte  but  utter  woe. 
Beware  her  eyen,  her  brest  of  snowe. 
Her  rounded  armes  are  wantonesse!" 

But  tho'  he  spak  with  wisest  arte 
They  listenne  with  unhearinge  hart, 
And  folie  deme  his  counselles  sounde, 
Which  fal  lik  graine  onne  barrene  grounde. 


11 


To  that  grete  loathly  lake  of  fyre 
'Neath  which  Gomorrah  whelmed  lyes 
They  com,  wher  on  an  islet  dire 
Ther  doth  a  charmed  castel  rise. 

The  Stygian  water  girdes  the  grounde 
About  a  garden  faery  fair, 

Wher  blossomed  flowers  the  whole  yeare  rounde 
Mak  perfumed  summer  everywhere. 


168  Old  Belgium 

Thither  Armyde  the  warriors  broughte 
And  welcomed  to  her  bosky  grot. 
And  ther  she  sate  hem  down  befor 
A  banket  furnyshed  forth  with  arte, 

On  massy  plat  and  vaisselle  d'or, 
Daintyes  from  Earth's  most  utter  parte, 
Served  by  an  hundred  maydens  faire 
Whil  myriad  birdes  made  musick  rare. 

Sated  with  meat  and  drynke  enow 
Entranced  sate  eche  knyghte  the  whiles 
With  rhythmic  dance  and  laughter  low 
Armyde  the  fleeting  houre  beguiles 

The  wytch  nowe  poureth  in  the  wyne, 
Like  Circe  sorceresse  of  yore, 
A  potion  from  a  phial  feyn 
Steeped  with  the  poyson  Hellebore. 

Of  which  but  one  small  subtil  draught, 
Sipped  from  the  cuppe  or  sudden  quaffed, 
Hath  power  to  turne  al  mortal  menne 
To  fawning  bestes  or  birds  obscene. 

The  heedless  knyghtes  the  philtre  taste 
And  straightwaye  then  eche  Prins  and  Kinge 
Doffs  human  shape  for  forme  of  beaste, 
Foul  fishe  and  swyn  al  wallowing. 

Then  suddenlye  to  craven  menne 
Her  victyms  turns  she  bakke  again. 
"See,  dastards,  how  the  soules  of  al 
Mankind  I  holde  in  endlesse  thrall. 


The  Hermit's  Crusade  169 

"Forsak  your  queste  and  faith  of  woe, 
Here  byde  with  me  in  lov  for  aye, 
Or  captyves  chained  to  Egypte  go!" 
Then  al  but  Eustace  answered,  "Nay!" 

He  false  to  them  his  fayth  forswore. 
They  unawares  by  Egypt's  king 
And  hundrede  horse  surprised  were 
Fettered  to  Nile's  far  banks  to  bring. 

But  Godefroy  then  upon  the  plaine 
O'ertook  and  quickly  rescued  them 
At  last  to  com,  by  devious  traine, 
To  saufety  at  Jerusalem. 

And  as  they  rode  in  joyance  thenne 
From  that  dread  castel  in  the  sea, 
Ne'er  to  be  seene  by  eyes  of  menne, 
In  smok  it  vanished  utterlye ! 

But  Eustace  since,  for  aught  we  know, 
Still  bydes  beneathe  that  lake  of  woe, 
Domed  with  Armyde  for  e'er  to  dwelle 
In  burninge  fyres  of  deepest  Helle ! 

There  followed  a  hush  like  that  between  a  flash  of 
lightning  and  a  peal  of  thunder.  But  the  crash  came 
quickly,  for  the  troubadour  leaped  at  the  throat  of 
Robert.  "By  the  splendour  of  God!"  he  cried,  "I 
am  minded  to  kill  thee  that  thou  hast  set  on  thy  minion 
so  to  slander  me." 

"Then  art  thou  that  damned  Eustace!"  stammered 
Robert,  as  he  wrested  himself  from  the  clutch  of  the 
troubadour  and  drew  his  sword. 


170  Old  Belgium 

"But  not  yet  in  deepest  hell,"  laughed  Eustace,  his 
hand  upon  his  poniard.  "Confess  that  I  abided  not 
with  Armide  but  bore  gallant  lance  against  the  infidels." 

"Thou  wert  at  Jersualem,  but  hadst  little  part 
therein,"  maintained  Robert. 

"In  Christ's  sweet  name,"  besought  Yolande,  "let 
there  be  peace  between  you!"  and  fell  swooning  in 
her  mother's  arms. 

The  Hermit  raised  his  hand  and  in  a  voice  accustomed 
to  command  exclaimed:  "Lay  down  your  weapons! 
Shame  it  were  that  they  who  battled  side  by  side  for 
Holy  Cross  should  set  sword  upon  one  another!" 

The  Duke  folded  his  arms  and  Eustace  sprang  to 
Yolande 's  side;  but  the  Hermit  put  him  sternly  away. 
"Put  not  her  life  in  peril,"  he  said,  "with  your  vain 
bickerings  and  desires.  She  can  endure  no  more. 
Disperse  ye  all  unto  your  rest  until  the  morrow,  and 
the  peace  of  God  be  with  you!" 

ii 
falcon  and  rosary 

Wide-eyed  and  restless  lay  Yolande  that  night, 
perturbed  by  memories,  tortured  by  uncertainty, 
overwhelmed  by  love  which  beat  its  fragile  wings  in 
vain  against  an  impenetrable  wall  of  doubt. 

"Doth  he  still  love  me?"  she  queried  within  her 
heart.  "Then  why  hath  he  given  no  token  thereof 
through  all  these  silent  years?    Nay,  he  hath  answered, 


The  Hermit's  Crusade  171 

he  believed  me  betrothed  to  his  brother.  In  spite  of 
this  he  comes!  But  why  then  in  disguise?  Why  did 
he  so  pitilessly  shame  me  in  the  eyes  of  my  friends? 
Can  it  be  that  love  in  his  heart  hath  frozen  to  hate? 
How  dearly  once  I  loved  the  glad-souled  boy!  But 
this  stranger, — is  this  the  Eustace  that  I  knew?" 

Sedulously  she  contrasted  the  two  images  and  strove 
to  reconcile  them.  Slender  as  the  youth  of  long  ago, 
for  ceaseless  hardship  had  kept  him  spare;  his  white 
skin  beneath  which  the  blood  was  wont  to  mantle  so 
ruddily  was  now  scorched  by  exposure  to  a  tawny 
bronze;  the  raven  locks,  which  had  an  upward  sweep, 
as  though  they  leapt  for  very  exuberance  of  life,  now 
drooped  limply  over  sunken  cheeks;  his  eyes  were  blue, 
but  inscrutable ;  there  was  cruelty  in  the  aquiline  nose, 
more  falconlike  than  of  yore,  beneath  which  thin  lips 
were  drawn  in  an  ironical  smile.  Nay,  she  loved  not 
those  treacherous  lips.  His  brother's  visage  was  master- 
ful but  not  cruel,  and  his  smile  the  gentlest  she  had 
ever  known.  Involuntarily  she  drifted  into  dream  of 
Godefroy.  Had  he  too  altered?  she  wondered.  Nay, 
time  ne'er  could  change  his  wondrous  constancy. 

Then,  sweet  and  clear  through  the  breaking  dawn, 
there  thrilled  a  sunrise  song,  an  alba  he  had  sung  ere 
they  parted.  Her  heart  gripped  with  ruth  for  the  love 
long  gone  that  would  ne'er  return.  Tears  welled 
in  her  eyes  as,  soaring  like  a  lark,  a  voice  carolled  to 
the  sunrise: 


172  Old  Belgium 

AN  ALBA 

0  Ladye  mine !  when  first  with  morn's  wan  lighte, 
The  silente  wold  is  bathed  inne  radiance  brighte, 
And  timorouse  birdlyngs  flutter  in  the  neste 
And  gentlye  wake  from  soft-enfolded  reste 
To  grete  the  Dawne  etherially  white — 

Then  wolde  I  thatte  to  my  bedimmed  sighte, 
Wearye  with  waiting  alle  the  endlesse  nighte 
That  thou  shouldst  come, — my  lighte  of  morning  bleste, 
O  Ladye  mine ! 

No  nocturne  born  of  dreme  I  thee  indite, 
But  minstrelsye  of  morn  to  spede  the  flighte 
Of  laggarde  nighte,  til  suddene,  east  and  west 
Glows  with  the  daye !    The  birdling  quits  her  neste. 
Come,  thou  brighte  dawne,  of  alle  delighte, 
0  Ladye  mine ! 

So  enthralled  was  Yolande  in  the  song  that,  until 
stillness  fell,  she  had  not  queried  as  to  whom  the 
singer  might  be.  Then  the  wonder  smote  her.  Could 
it  be  Godefroy? 

She  tiptoed  to  her  window  and  glimpsed,  in  the  white 
light  of  the  autumn  morn,  not  Godefroy  but  Eustace. 
He  was  silently  watching  her  casement;  but  waved 
cap  in  air  when  he  spied  her. 

To  his  wonderment — and  her  own  not  less — she 
shrank  softly  back  without  responding  to  his  greeting. 

Followed  matins,  and  the  break  of  fasting.  Yo- 
lande had  regained  her  wonted  poise.    She  welcomed 


The  Hermit's  Crusade  173 

Eustace  to  his  home  with  grace  and  seeming  cordiality. 
Not  but  that  he  would  have  preferred  more  show  of 
affection,  or  even  stammering  of  speech  and  lowered 
eyelids. 

After  the  morning  meal  she  proposed,  for  pastime 
of  the  day,  a  hunt  with  falcons.  Level  country  such 
as  befitted  was  not  to  be  found  within  several  leagues, 
therefore  they  would  to  horse  betimes. 

Eustace  lifted  her  into  the  saddle.  "May  I  be  your 
falconer?"  he  asked. 

"Gramercy, "  she  answered,  "I  hunt  with  cousin 
Samson.     Wait  if  thou  wilt  upon  my  Lady  Mother." 

Eustace  drew  a  wry  face.  "I  needs  must  speak 
with  thee, "  he  insisted. 

"Meet  me  at  noontide  by  the  Roman  tower," 
Yolande  replied. 

Smiling  assent  Eustace  betook  himself  to  the  dowager 
humming  an  air  too  saucy  for  the  chaste  ears  of  that 
venerable  dame.  At  length  he  cunningly  contrived  to 
bestow  her  upon  Robert  of  Normandy  and  attained 
the  rendezvous  before  the  appointed  hour. 

He  mounted  the  tower  and  scanned  the  horizon. 
Presently  he  was  rewarded  by  sight  of  the  Lady  Yo- 
lande, who,  hawk  on  wrist,  with  her  hounds  gam- 
bolling at  her  palfrey's  heels,  ambled  leisurely  across 
the  moor,  the  utterly  superfluous  Samson  riding  beside 
her. 

As  she  halted  beneath  the  tneurtrihre  through  which 


174  Old  Belgium 

Eustace  was  peering  he  piped  a  shrill  whistle  like  the 
cry  of  a  magpie.  It  was  a  signal  which  they  had  been 
wont  to  use  as  playmates. 

Yolande  quickly  sprang  her  falcon  though  no 
quarry  was  in  sight.  "Sweet  cousin,"  she  cried  in 
simulated  dismay,  "  mine  eyess  hath  escaped  me! 
Wilt  thou  not  lure  it  back?" 

"Right  gladly,"  replied  de  la  Marcke,  "but  it  irks 
me  sore  to  leave  thee  thus  alone." 

"My  servitors  come  anon  with  the  refection,  I  run 
no  manner  of  danger, "  she  said.  "  I  pray  thee  bring  me 
my  gentle  eyess." 

With  that  Cousin  Samson  was  off  on  a  fruitless  quest, 
as  well  the  minx  knew,  for  her  hawk  was  a  peregrine 
of  passage  scarce  mewed,  which  once  free  would  ne'er 
descend  till  it  had  found  prey. 

Springing  from  her  steed,  Yolande  repeated  the 
magpie  signal.  Eustace  descended  the  tower  and 
stood  waiting  in  the  doorway. 

They  were  alone.  No  living  creature  stirred  o'er  all 
the  drowsy  moor  in  the  still,  hot  glare  of  noon.  Yet 
the  somnolent  silence  was  rife  with  inaudible  murmurs. 
The  air  was  redolent  with  the  scent  of  ripened  fruitage. 
Myriad  offspring  of  the  wold  harboured  beneath 
tangled  leafage,  seeking  shelter  from  the  all-seeing 
stare  of  the  sun.  Above,  a  sultry  canopy  of  incumbent 
azure  brooded  upon  all — breathless  and  transparent — 
but  surcharged  with  portent  of  passion. 


The  Hermit's  Crusade  175 

Tranquilly  Yolande  approached  Eustace  and  gave 
him  her  gloved  hand  to  kiss. 

With  a  flash  of  scorn  from  his  steel-blue  eyes,  he 
asked :     ' '  Hast  thou  no  better  welcome  ? ' ' 

"An  thou  wilt  enlighten  my  wilderment, "  she 
replied,  seating  herself  in  the  narrow  archway,  her 
level  look  probing  him  like  a  lance. 

"As  thou  wilt, "  he  shrugged.  "To  thine  inquisition, 
gentle  torturer,  thou  seest  I  lie  upon  the  rack." 

His  tone  was  too  flippant,  and  jangled  with  her 
mood.  "Jest  not,"  she  said,  "I  come  hither  not  for 
badinage  but  for  earnest  speech." 

He  drew  nearer.  "Listen,  Yolande,  more  earnest 
am  I  than  death.  Thou  knowest  I  love  thee  beyond 
life!  What  matters  aught  save  thou  to  me  and  I  to 
thee?" 

Her  heart  cried  with  delight,  "If  this  were  only 
true!"  Then,  as  she  caught  the  glitter  of  triumph  in 
his  gaze,  she  held  herself  in  leash,  "Thou  art  too 
certain  of  me!"  she  said. 

"I  am  sure  of  thee  for  that  thou  wouldst  have  the 
highest  seat  in  Lorraine.  This  I  shall  give  thee;  but 
what  I  purpose  can  only  be  accomplished  through  thine 
aid.  I  would  grasp  the  dukedom  which  Godefroy 
let  slip." 

"But  how  wilt  thou  obtain  consent  of  its  vassals?" 

"All  that  a  man  hath  will  he  forfeit  for  his  life," 
Eustace  replied  with  a  twitch  of  his  treacherous  lips. 


176  Old  Belgium 

"Thinkest  thou  that  when  each  of  thy  suitors  waketh 
in  fetters  he  will  not  consent  to  whatsoever  I  may 
demand?" 

"But  that  were  villainy!"  cried  Yolande. 

"It  were  a  pretty  stroke.  I  will  lure  each  lord  with 
bribes  of  place  or  fortune.  If  this  fail,  there  re- 
maineth  lingering  torture,  and  the  oubliette.  There 
be  a  many  keys  with  which  to  ope  a  door." 

"Some  doors,"  said  Yolande,  "have  but  one.  'Tis 
a  wise  rogue  that  wotteth  which  key  will  fit  the  lock." 

"I  have  the  key  to  ope  thy  heart,"  quoth  Eustace; 
"not  love,  but  high  ambition.  Thou  wouldst  have  a 
sovereign  to  mate,  as  I  a  Queen." 

"Yea,"  she  murmured,  "the  master  of  my  heart 
must  be  a  king!" 

He  believed  his  cause  won,  but  she  continued  with 
sudden  vehemence:  "Such  then  is  thy  love;  cold  and 
unrelenting  thou  wouldst  make  me  a  mere  tool  for 
thine  aggrandizement." 

"Cold  sayest  thou?"  he  muttered  ironically. 

"Why  else  yestreen  didst  thou  so  shame  me  before 
all?" 

"I  was  beside  myself  with  jealousy.  Knowest 
thou  not  that  misprision  is  but  the  hither  side  of  love? 
That  it  is  a  flame  that  devours  the  heart  which  is  its 
torch?"  He  prisoned  her  hands,  covering  them  with 
kisses.     Had  he  but  known  he  was  nigh  to  victory. 

Yolande  could  not  trust  herself  so  near  and  eluding 


The  Hermit's  Crusade  177 

his  hold,  sprang  into  the  open,  when  with  a  whir  of 
wings  a  wounded  dove  suddenly  circled  downward  and, 
veering  hither  and  thither,  took  trembling  sanctuary 
in  her  bosom. 

"Poor,  piteous  pigeon!"  she  murmured,  stroking  it 
gently.     ' '  What  has  frighted  thee  ? ' ' 

"See,  a  hawk!"  cried  Eustace,  pointing  to  a  black 
speck,  far  up  in  the  sky,  which  grew  until  great  wings 
dusked  the  sun,  when  sudden  out  of  the  blue  vault, 
like  a  bolt  from  an  arbalist,  upon  the  cowering  dove 
hurtled  a  huge  gerfalcon ! 

Its  talons  entangled  in  Yolande's  rosary,  the  hawk, 
unable  to  free  itself,  struck  at  her  face  with  its  terrible 
beak. 

Leaping  upon  it  with  an  oath,  Eustace  buffeted 
off  the  struggling  falcon,  then,  tearing  the  helpless 
pigeon  from  its  refuge,  threw  it  relentlessly  in  air. 
The  hawk  swooped  again  and  engaged ;  blood-bedabbled 
feathers  flew  in  every  direction.  Again  the  dove  fell; 
but,  ere  it  reached  the  ground,  the  falcon  pounced  upon 
it  and  soared  far  away  over  the  heath. 

"0,  cruel  one!"  cried  Yolande.  "How  couldst  thou 
betray  that  trusting  dove?"  Then,  perceiving  a 
trickle  of  blood  upon  his  brow,  she  said  tenderly: 
"  Thou  art  wounded,  Eustace,  love.  Let  me  staunch 
the  blood  with  my  scarf." 

"Wilt  thou  be  more  kind  to  a  senseless  dove  than 

to  me?"  he  cried.     "Let  me  too  find  sanctuary,"  and 
za 


178  Old  Belgium 

before  she  could  free  herself  he  had  buried  his  face  in 
her  bosom. 

With  a  shriek  she  attempted  to  thrust  him  off,  her 
eyes  blazing  with  anger ;  but  he  knelt  before  her  clinging 
to  her  knees.  "Thou  lovest  me,"  he  cried.  "Thou 
hast  confessed  it.  Par  dieu  thou  shalt  not  taunt  me 
with  coldness,  but  pay  Love's  ransom  ere  I  free  thee." 

"Caitiff!"  she  flashed,  struggling  desperately;  then, 
as  she  felt  herself  at  the  end  of  her  strength,  implored: 
"In  mercy  wait.     Slay  not  my  love  for  thee!" 

"I  have  waited  o'er  long,  my  hour  has  come!"  he 
muttered,  as  he  dragged  the  swooning  Yolande  to  the 
tower.  But  in  the  doorway  he  paused,  for,  far  across 
the  moor  figures  were  approaching. 

Yolande  felt  his  grasp  relax  and  springing  to  her 
feet  recognized  the  burly  Samson,  and  other  of  her 
friends.  "Go,"  she  commanded,  "nor  e'er  return. 
I  will  not  expose  thy  villainy,  so  thou  come  not  in  my 
sight  again!" 

"Were  it  not  matter  for  comment  if  I  were  seen 
fleeing  from  thy  presence  like  a  whipped  hound?"  he 
asked.  "Thou  art  mine  now  beyond  release,  for  no 
other  will  deign  to  lay  his  head  where  mine  hath  rested ! " 

She  clutched  at  her  bosom  as  though  to  tear  away 
a  burning  brand,  then  she  paled.  "My  rosary!"  she 
gasped,  "thou  didst  filch  it  from  me!" 

It  flashed  over  him  that  she  misdeemed  he  held 
damning  evidence  of  her  shame  and  he  laughed  de- 


The  Hermit's  Crusade  179 

risively.  "None  will  gainsay  my  right  to  thee  when 
I  show  this  proof  of  thy  largesse." 

"But  I  gave  thee  not  my  treasure,"  she  insisted, 
"thou  didst  wrest  it  from  me." 

"Little  matters  if  a  woman's  treasure  be  given  or 
taken  so  it  is  lost!" 

His  words  stabbed  her  to  the  quick  but  she  dared, 
"Thou  art  a  perjured  liar  and  a  coward!" 

"There  be  a  many  keys  to  unlock  a  fortress,"  he 
sneered.  Then  as  she  turned  from  him  in  despair, 
her  form  shaken  with  sobs,  he  entreated:  "Yolande, 
rosary  of  my  heart,  proclaim  me  thy  choice  and  thou 
shalt  ne'er  repent." 

She  had  not  time  to  answer  for  her  friends  were 
hard  at  hand.  Samson  hot,  and  out  of  humour,  without 
the  eyess  for  which  all  the  morning  he  had  searched 
fruitlessly.  Yolande  returned  him  scant  courtesy  for 
his  pains,  but  kept  him  by  her.  The  others  came  by 
twos  and  threes,  Duke  Robert  cursing  similar  ill-luck, 
for  he  had  lost  his  hawk,  the  great  gerfalcon,  early  in 
the  day. 

The  sumpter  mules  arrived  with  the  refection  in 
which  the  knights  found  consolation.  A  comparison 
of  game-bags  showed  that  the  sport  had  been  fair. 
A  thrall  brought  news  of  a  plenitude  of  woodcock  in 
the  wheat  fields  of  Sedan.  They  would  make  a  detour 
in  that  direction  on  their  return  to  the  chateau. 

There  was  idle  chatter,  a  strumming  of  lutes,  and 


180  Old  Belgium 

the  company  took  horse  for  the  afternoon  hunt.  Later, 
as  the  gay  though  wearied  cavalcade  wound  toward 
Bouillon,  Eustace  rode  last  of  all,  striving  gloomily  to 
foresee  his  next  throw  of  the  dice.  Well  he  recked 
that  if  he  carried  out  his  threat  and  boasted  possession 
of  the  love-token  he  would  be  challenged  to  produce  it. 
How  then  to  come  by  the  rosary? 

He  had  searched  in  vain  the  entire  afternoon;  only 
when  dusk  fell  had  he  given  up  the  quest.  He  had 
traversed  the  lonely  moor  without  encounter,  but  at  a 
fork  in  the  road  'twixt  fen  and  woodland  he  was  con- 
fronted by  a  rustic  cross,  which  marked  the  spot  where 
a  maiden  had  been  foully  murdered. 

In  his  despite  a  prayer  surged  to  his  lips:  "Mother 
o'  God!  give  me  the  love- token,  and  thou  shalt  ne'er 
again  be  troubled  by  prayer  of  mine ! "  Then  the  blas- 
phemy of  it  stabbed  him.  "Nay,  Our  Lady  would 
not  lend  aid  in  such  a  cause."  According  he  addressed 
himself  to  the  Power  of  Darkness:  "Thou,  who 
bringest  to  pass  all  infamy,  grant  me  this  bauble  and 
I  will  yield  thee  eternally  my  soul!" 

A  woman  crouching  at  the  foot  of  the  cross  sprang 
suddenly  out  of  the  dark.  "Is  this  thy  hawk,  Sire 
Knight?"  asked  the  ragged  drab  displaying  the 
gerfalcon. 

"Ay,"  he  laughed,  "and  right  glad  am  I  thou  hast 
returned  it;  but  how  earnest  thou  by  the  hawk?" 

11 1  found  him  glutting  himself  on  a  pigeon  and  hooded 


The  Hermit's  Crusade  181 

him  with  my  stocking.  Will  not  the  bountiful  knight 
reward  me?  See,  there  is  tangled  in  its  varvel1  a  chain 
of  stones  which  should  be  precious." 

"Ay,  'tis  precious  indeed!"  cried  Eustace,  tossing 
her  a  florin;  "I  bought  it  with  my  soul." 

At  the  feast  that  night  he  was  gloomy  and  taciturn ; 
but  his  silence  passed  unnoticed  by  the  company,  whose 
interest  was  turned  to  the  forthcoming  event,  for  ere 
midnight  Lady  Yolande  must  announce  her  choice. 

To  while  away  the  intervening  time  Peter  the  Hermit 
had  consented  to  recount  to  them  the  deliverance  of 
Jerusalem  from  Paynim  rule. 

Thus  forestalling  Tasso  four  centuries  or  more  Peter 
intoned: 

YE  HERMITE'S  TALE 


When  that  in  silverne  mantle,  morning  bryghte^ 

With  rosie  fingers,  Dawne  displayed  her  lighte 

Opal  and  golde,  Jerusaleme  appeared, 

The  saincted  citie  where  oure  Lorde  was  reared, 

Then  sudden  broke  the  congregacioun, 

In  thousand  voiced  salutacioun. 

"Jerusaleme,  Jerusaleme!    Oure  sacrede  queste  is  o'ere!" 

Murmured  the  multitude  in  accentes  lowe, 

Lik  wynde  in  leafie  forestes,  or  the  slowe 

Washe  of  the  thundrous  surfe  upon  the  shore. 

1  A  silver  ring  on  the  ankle  of  the  falcon  on  which  the  owner's  name 
was  sometimes  engraved. 


182  Old  Belgium 

Nowe  on  the  aride  plaine  that  northwarde  shines 
Duke  Godefroy  pitched  his  campe,  while  to  the  southe, 
Count  Raymonde  ranged  his  troope  in  bataille  lines 
Consumed  by  burning  sunne  and  desert  drouthe 
More  pitylesse  than  flame  of  Moslem  mines. 
Mules,  horses,  menne  peryshed  of  fierye  thirste 
Taintynge  the  air  with  pestilence  accurste. 

Fir  from  the  foreste  vales  of  Nablus  borne 

Timber  for  toures  and  batteringe-rammes  home 

The  workmenne  wrought  with  cunnynge  and  with  crafte 

Devysed  by  an  artfulle  architecte, 

Guilliaume  le  Genoys,  who  didde  directe 

The  whiles  the  Saracines  derisive  laughed. 

Not  rammes  nor  mangonel  alone  they  mak 
But  rear  a  forteresse  both  highe  and  wyde 
The  lik  was  never  seene,  the  walles  to  rak 
With  haile  of  barb&d  darte  and  missiles  dire 
And  to  protecte  its  bulwarke  fronte  and  side, 
Againste  the  Moslem  balles  of  wikked  fire, 
Clothed  the  nakyd  frame  with  new  bulles  hide. 

This  toure  they  filled  with  armed  menne  a  score 
And  set  upon  an  hundred  wheles  to  rolle 
Fast  to  assaulte  and  eke  of  toures  two  more 
Raised  they  to  rampartes  highe  with  rope  and  pole. 


ii 


Whil  thus  with  brawne  and  enginerye  immense 
Som  do  attack  and  som  maintaine  defense, 
Hygh  inne  the  welkyn  o'ere  Godefroy's  tente, 
Fluttered  a  gentil  dove  onne  pinyons  fraile, 
Bearynge  a  spedye  course  to  Zion  bente 
Straighte  o'ere  the  campe  lik  shippe  befor  a  gale. 


The  Hermit's  Crusade  183 

Then  lo,  a  falcon  flew  in  swift  pursuite 
With  talons  longe  and  keene,  whence  none  could  telle, 
After  the  trembling  dove,  which  wounded,  mute 
In  Godefroy's  very  handes  defense1ess  fell. 

Arounde  her  throat  a  missive  she  didde  weare 
Whereon  was  writ  in  scripture  wondrous  faire 
"Greetyngs  to  Solyman  from  Egypt's  King 
For  three  more  days  indure,  when  at  thy  prayere 
I  surely  com  deliverance  to  bringe!" 

The  Duke  sette  free  the  dove  which  fled  in  feare 
Whence  she  hadde  com,  then  read  the  message  cleare. 
"See  how  oure  ever  helpyng  Saviour  showes, " 
Quoth  he,  "the  verye  secretes  of  oure  foes. 
No  longer  byde,  but,  ere  this  helpe  avayle, 
Wher  leaste  defensed  Salem  loomes  moste  highe, 
From  oure  grete  toure  and  geaunt  enginerye 
Sounde  the  assaulte  and  quick  the  fortresse  scale." 

With  bristling  speres,  joined  in  a  solide  mass, 
Eche  lifting  o'ere  his  head  his  targe  of  bras, 
And  climbing  onne  his  fellowe's  shoulder,  formes 
A  living  pyramide  which  upward  swarms, 
The  knyghtes  the  Tortoise  mak,  that  tedious  crawls 
Resistlesse  'gainst  the  lofty e  Syrian  walles. 

But,  maugre  al  our  warrior's  hardinesse, 
The  Moslemmes  heap  upon  them  such  a  stress 
Of  rockes  that  down  they  reel  in  dire  distresse. 
A  ladder  talle  with  rungs  an  hundred  highe 
Agaynst  the  walls  did  Eustace  then  uprayse 
And  nimbly  clomb  the  battlements  well  nighe, 
Then  backward  battered  through  a  mangled  maze 
Headlong  he  felle,  a  comet  from  the  skye! 


184  Old  Belgium 

Meanwhil  from  the  grete  toure  the  archers  sent 
Ther  poysened  dartes  of  death  so  thick  a  cloude 
The  shinyng  face  of  dayes  whyte  firmament 
Was  darke  as  ebon  nyghte  in  sudden  shroude. 

But  Solyman  with  furye  gave  replye 

With  stones  and  fallyng  trees  from  offe  the  walle 

And  to  the  armed  toure  did  then  applye 

With  pulleys,  ropes  and  chaines  a  myghtye  beame, 

Who  smote  her  woden  sydes  till  they  did  falle 

Refte  lyk  an  avalanche  from  glaciale  streame. 

Then  on  them  poured  a  raine  of  stinkyng  fire, 

Redde  as  the  blode  from  ^Etna's  cratere  caste ! 

And  belch  of  blindyng  smoke  and  furye  dire 

Kindled  to  burstyng  flame  the  tymbers  vaste. 

Anon  the  Knyghtes  presse  up  with  dauntless  wil, 

But,  spyte  of  al  assaultes,  the  Turkes  againe 

Of  moltenne  led  and  eke  of  boilyng  oile 

Pour  on  ther  foemenne  such  a  ceaseles  raine 

That,  doomward,  down  they  fall  al  starke  and  stil! 

For  every  Turke  the  bolde  crusaders  kil 

An  hundred  Moslems  swarmyng  from  the  soil 

Seem  suddenly  to  spring  to  life,  until 

Our  corage,  overtried,  at  laste  doth  faile. 

"Who  can  againste  such  whelming  oddes  prevail?" 

Ill 

"Lord  Christe,  thou  whom  the  cruel  Jewes  did  naile 
Upon  the  cross  with  malefactors  twaine, 
Who  walked  in  Galilee  the  tempeste  maine, 
Was  crucifyed,  entombed,  then  rose  againe, " 
Prayed  Godefroy,  "now  thy  liegman  do  not  faile, 
But  save  my  sinfull  soul  and  arme  mine  handes, 
And  make  my  thews  lik  stalwart  brazen  bandes 


The  Hermit's  Crusade  185 

That  thy  grete  sepulcher,  by  help  of  thee, 

This  daye  mine  host  for  Christendomme  shall  free!" 

Scarce  from  his  lippes  the  wordes  had  issued  whenne 
In  answere  to  his  prayer,  a  vision  bryghte, 
Shaming  in  luster  Noon's  translucent  skyes, 
Unseene  by  al  the  mad  contendyng  menne, 
Archangel  Michel,  clad  in  armour  whyte, 
Appeared  alone  to  Godefroy's  wildered  eyes. 

He  spake:     "To  thine  assistance,  lo,  I  bringe 

Succour  from  Heaven  and  strength  of  Heavenly  King! 

Thine  eyes  uplift  the  soules  of  al  to  see 

The  holie  legions  who  for  Christe  his  sake 

Have  foughte  and  died,  assembled  here  for  thee 

To  fighte  and  die  againe  or  conqueste  make ! 

This  is  the  long-awaited,  fated  houre 

To  wrest  Jerusaleme  from  Paynim  power." 

The  vision  vanisheth  as  sinkes  a  ston, 
Flung  in  the  mydst  of  som  depe,  placid  ponde 
Rippling  in  circles  ever  wyder  ronde, 
The  winged  legions  flutter  and  are  gon ! 


IV 


Then  with  new  corage  eche  to  toure  and  walle, 
Boldened  by  Godefroy,  fightynge  in  the  fore, 
Rearing  anew  the  laders  frail  and  talle, 
The  knyghts  swarme  upward  in  a  raine  of  gore 
But  downward  stil  to  totter  as  befor ! 
Ageyn  they  batter  at  the  rampartes  highe, 
Ageyn  approched  the  engine  slowe  and  vaste, 
Lumbering  onwarde,  towering  to  the  skye, 
Til  that,  upon  the  walles,  the  bridge  she  caste ! 


186  Old  Belgium 

Then  Godefroy  liftes  the  gonfalon  on  highe 
And,  leaping  o'ere  the  bridge,  with  gleming  glaive 
Striks  downe  the  Soldan,  who  the  entry  nighe, 
Alon  remained,  the  whil  themselves  to  save 
His  body-guard  flee  from  Sire  Godefroy,  bente 
Lik  an  avenging  god  on  punishmente! 

On  David's  Toure,  the  Holie  Cross  dispreade, 
Now  Godefroy  naileth  to  the  topmoste  maste! 
The  walles  are  won!    The  gates  are  open  vaste! 
One  mightye  shout,  to  raise  the  verye  deade, 
The  armyes  loose,  and  Zion's  temples  smile 
Whyte  in  the  joyous  sunne,  as  tho'  they  taste 
The  swete  deliverance  from  durance  vile, 
Forever  saved  for  Christendomme  at  laste! 

A  storm  of  plaudits  greeted  the  hermit  at  the  termi- 
nation of  his  tale. 

Yolande  sat  silent  with  flaming  cheeks.  "A  wondrous 
deed  for  a  sacred  cause, "  she  said  at  last.  "Master,  I 
forgive  thee  for  the  sacrifice  of  the  lives  of  our  men 
and  the  hearts  of  our  women,  and  I  do  envy  the  humblest 
widow  who  tombeth  her  love  in  triumphant  pride  of 
him  she  weeps." 

"Nay,"  protested  Eustace,  "were  it  not  better  to  be 
wife  of  a  living  crusader  than  widow  of  one  dead?" 

"Yea,"  assented  Robert,  "for  once  he  speaketh 
sooth.  No  sable  weed  for  thee,  but  the  snowy  ermine 
of  a  queen.  Myself  and  Normandy  I  lay  at  thy  feet. 
Perchance  one  day  I  may  crown  thee  empress  of  the 
realms  of  the  Conqueror!" 


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"  An  it  please  you,  Philippa  " 

From  Froissart's  Chronicles 


The  Hermit's  Crusade  187 

"That  were  indeed  too  great  honour,  my  lord;  the 
falcon  of  my  heart  wingeth  not  so  nigh  the  sun, "  replied 
Yolande  humbly. 

"The  sun  then  shall  stoop  to  thee,"  exclaimed  the 
Duke  kneeling  ceremoniously  at  her  feet.  "Give  me, 
I  beseech  thee,  sovereign  lady,  the  rosary  that  zones 
thy  heart." 

With  wide  eyes  of  despair,  "I  have  it  not,"  she 
stammered,  "a  ravening  falcon  tore  the  token  from  me !" 

A  shudder  ran  over  the  assemblage:  "Can  it  be  she 
hath  granted  it  already? "  was  the  thought  which  flashed 
through  the  minds  of  all. 

Eustace  realized  that  the  crisis  of  his  life  had  come. 
At  a  word  from  him  Yolande  must  yield  herself  or 
stand  forever  shamed.  But  the  thought  that  she 
could  never  love  him  turned  his  triumph  to  defeat 
and  reconciled  him  to  renunciation. 

Yolande  bided  her  death-blow,  as  one  with  head 
upon  the  block  awaits  the  axe  of  the  executioner.  The 
expectant  hush  was  broken  by  the  tinkle  of  a  silver 
bell. 

Yolande  started.  " 'Tis  the  bell  of  my  gerfalcon!" 
she  cried. 

"Yea,  'tis  here,"  said  Samson,  un jessing  the  hawk 
from  its  perch,  "and,  by  the  miracles  of  the  saints,  it 
beareth,  round  its  throat,  thy  lost  rosary!" 

"Heaven  sends  it  me ! "  cried  Yolande,  little  surmising 
that  Eustace  had  thus  restored  the  token.    He  had 


1 88  Old  Belgium 

foreborne  his  advantage  at  the  moment  of  victory, 
and  a  peace  such  as  he  had  never  known,  flooded  his 
tempest-racked  heart. 

"Choose,  my  child,"  said  the  Hermit,  "the  nobles 
wait  thy  decision." 

Thus  spake  Yolande : 

"My  friends,  absolve  me,  through  your  great  court- 
esy, if  what  I  must  needs  say  grieveth  you.  Witness 
that  it  was  not  by  bidding  of  mine  that  ye  were 
summoned  here  today." 

"  'Twas  at  call  of  thy  father,"  interjected  De  la  Marck, 
"and  well  reckoned  we  in  coming  that  but  one  of  us 
could  carry  off  the  prize.  We  are  good  gamesters  all, 
none  shall  reproach  thee  for  his  misfortune." 

"Certes,"  continued  Yolande,  "had  I  ere  now  under- 
stood mine  own  heart,  ye  should  not  so  needlessly  have 
been  affronted.  But  late  whiles,  in  pondering  much, 
have  I  learned  to  love  the  noblest  knight  of  all  high 
chivalry." 

Then  all  lifted  voice  with  one  acclaim,  "  'Tis  Godefroy, 
and  none  other!"  and  whispering  among  themselves, 
"  She  knoweth  not !    She  knoweth  not." 

Spake  the  Hermit,  his  voice  tremulous  with 
compassion.  "Alas!  that  pure  soul  hath  departed 
'whither  they  neither  marry,  nor  are  given  in  marriage, 
but  are  as  the  angels  of  God.'" 

Yolande  stood  stark-white.  "It  cannot  be  Heaven 
taketh  one  so  needed  in  this  world," 


The  Hermit's  Crusade  189 

"He  had  finished  his  task.  Not  until  then  did  the 
Almighty  call  him  to  a  greater  life.  For  twelve  months 
after  the  taking  of  Jerusalem  he  laboured  to  bring  con- 
cord out  of  confusion,  that  Christian  and  Moslem 
might  live  together  in  peace,  until  he  had  built  the  way 
wherein,  unassisted,  weaker  feet  might  walk.  Then 
laid  he  down  the  burden  he  manfully  had  borne." 

Yolande  sank  to  her  seat  her  face  buried  in  her  hands 
sobbing  piteously.  The  Abbess,  enfolding  the  heart- 
broken girl  in  a  motherly  embrace,  besought:  "Wed 
thyself  with  Christ,  my  daughter.  We  will  gather  the 
children  orphaned  by  war,  and  nurture  them  to  an 
heritage  of  peace." 

"Alas!"  wept  Yolande,  "were  I  but  as  those  happy 
widows,  who  knew,  though  but  for  a  moment,  the  bliss 
of  love." 

"Be  comforted,"  said  the  Hermit,  "for  Godefroy 
of  his  undying  love  sends  thee  a  proof.  When  he  ate 
of  the  poisoned  fruit  sent  by  the  Emir  of  Cesarea,  I 
watched  at  his  death-bed.  "Thou  spakest  sooth,  thy 
gift  of  the  jacinth  was  no  pledge  of  thy  love,  of  that 
Godefroy  ne'er  had  hope,  deeming  that  Eustace  loved 
thee  in  plighted  troth.  Father  and  brother  was  he 
alike  to  that  abandoned  youth.  His  last  words 
breathed  only  blessing. 

"'Bid  Eustace  be  true!'  he  said,  then,  'It  darkens 
fast.  Fetch  me  my  sword.'  Reverently  kissing  the 
cross  he   prayed,    '  Noctem   quietam    concede   ilia  Do- 


190  Old  Belgium 

mini,'    and  journeyed  to   that  Jerusalem  where  war 
is  not  nor  thought  of  any  guile." 

Yolande  rose,  her  eyes  gleaming  with  exaltation. 
"Great  soul,  of  whom  I  was  unworthy!  Friends, 
grieve  not  at  my  widowhood,  for  I  glory  therein.  I 
walk  in  joyous  pride  till  that  I  find  my  King  in  the 
Heavenly  City." 

One  by  one  the  knights  silently  took  leave;  but  that 
night,  as  she  slumbered,  Yolande  heard  the  voice  of 
Godefroy  without  her  casement  singing  an  even  song : 

SERENA 

Her  eyen  placide  wer  as  eve  in  June, 
When  Vesper  stilles  the  ocean's  restless  playe, 
In  joyance  unalloyed  her  seemed  to  saye: 

With  life  and  nature  is  mine  herte  attune, 

Til  alle  my  being  thrills  a  slumbrous  rune, 

Consonant  sweteness,  mingling,  night  and  daye, 
In  lilt  of  laughing  love ;  a  virelaye 

Of  longe-remembered  trystings  'neath  the  moone. 

The  long,  long  daye  is  done  and  with  the  nyghte, 
The  stedfast  starres  o'er  purple  hillocks  creepe. 
Al  murmurs  cease  in  silente,  silverne  calme, 
Wherein  dwelles  onlye  dream  and  swete  delighte 
The  sighing  nyghte  exhales  a  scented  balme, 
Peace,  ladye,  peace,  serene  and  blissful  sleep! 


CHAPTER  VI 

"an  it  please  thee,  philippa" 

(a  lost  chronicle  of  matters  concerning  which 
froissart  is  discreetly  silent) 

You  don't  know  Froissart  now,  young  folks. 
This  age,  I  think,  prefers  recitals 
Of  high-spiced  crime,  with  slang  for  jokes 
And  startling  titles. 

But,  in  my  time,  when  still  some  few 
Loved  "old  Montaigne,"  and  praised  Pope's  Homer, 
We  thought  to  style  him  "poet"  too 
Were  scarce  misnomer. 

Here  is  a  time-stained  chapter — How 
The  English  King  laid  siege  to  Calais; 
I  think  Gran  knows  it  even  now — 
Go  ask  her,  Alice. 

Austin  Dobson. 

I 

OF   PHILIPPA'S  WEDDING    RING 

CIVE  daughters  had  Earl  Guillaume  of  Hainault, 
*  and,  in  point  of  privilege,  I  might  reckon  myself 
the  sixth;  for  when  my  sister  wedded  his  elder  son,  and 

191 


192  Old  Belgium 

I,  Marguerite  of  Brabant,  journeyed  with  her  to  Valen- 
ciennes, his  daughters  were  to  me  as  sisters.  More 
than  sisterly  was  the  affection  I  cherished  for  Philippa, 
of  whose  history  I  am  the  loving  chronicler. 

Lovesome  she  was,  with  her  milky  skin  that  flushed 
and  paled  like  heat-lightning,  for  she  was  quick  to 
anger  and  as  quick  to  forgive.  Gold-red  was  her  hair, 
which  flowed  like  a  river  of  flame  from  forehead  to 
feet.  Unhesitant  of  judgment,  clear  of  foresight, 
boundless  of  courage,  and  of  faithful  though  passionate 
heart.  What  wonder  that  I  loved  her,  and  was  minded 
to  bide  alway  her  devoted  companion? 

One  ne'er-to-be  forgotten  night,  in  the  summer  of  the 
year  of  grace  1326  [Marguerite  begins]  we  awoke  to 
find  the  chateau  in  commotion.  Torches  flashing  in 
the  court  below  glared  through  our  open  casement. 
I  heard,  as  in  a  troubled  dream,  the  clang  of  the 
portcullis,  the  neighing  of  horses,  and  clatter  of 
hoofs. 

Philippa  shook  me  by  the  shoulder.  "Marguerite!" 
she  cried.     "See,  a  cavalcade  of  lance!" 

We  stood,  the  better  to  spy  through  the  narrow 
meutriere  one  above  the  other,  and  beheld  the  court 
crowded  with  men-at-arms,  ranged  orderly,  halberds  at 
salute.  Earl  Guillaume  and  his  Countess  stood  be- 
neath the  vaulted  archway  of  the  Porte  d'Honneur. 
They  were  robed  en  gala.  The  Countess  in  black 
velvet,  pranked  with  the  lace  that  made  Valenciennes 


"An  It  Please  Thee,  Philippa"       193 

famed;  Earl  Guillaume  in  sable-bordered  pourpoint, 
a  heavy  golden  chain  about  his  shoulders. 

Presently  came  cantering  across  the  drawbridge 
Sire  Jean  of  Hainault,  the  uncle  of  Philippa,  in  resplen- 
dent armour,  leading  by  the  bridle  a  snow-white  palfrey. 
Upon  it  sat  a  lady,  sable-robed  and  closely  veiled; 
seeing  our  parents  awaiting  her  she  withdrew  her 
wimple  and  revealed  her  wondrous  face.  Beauteous 
she  was  indeed,  but  worn  beyond  her  years,  and  there 
was  something  cruelly  bitter  in  her  wan,  drawn  lips 
and  wild,  dark  eyes. 

So  bewitched  was  I  by  the  strange  aspect  of  this 
lady,  that  I  did  not  at  first  comprehend  the  smothered 
exclamation  of  Philippa.  "Who  is  he,  Marguerite, 
who  is  he?"  Then  was  I  ware  that  her  eyes  were 
bent  not  on  the  loathly  lady,  but  upon  a  youth  who, 
bravely  mounted,  followed  after  her.  He  was  unarmed, 
and  slender,  indeed  he  appeared  too  youthful  for  a 
knight. 

Having  crossed  the  drawbridge,  he  spurred  to  the 

side  of  the  lady.     Sire  Jean  presented  both  to  the 

parents  of  Philippa.     Earl  Guillaume  went  down  on 

one  knee  murmuring  greetings.     The  Countess,  having 

embraced  the  strange  lady,  would  have  kissed  the  hand 

of  the  youth  but  that  he  suffered  her  not,  saluting  her 

instead  upon  the  forehead.     They  disappeared  within 

the  castle,  their  men-at-arms  retiring  to  the  guard-room. 

Agog  with  curiosity  I  began  to  dress;  but  Philippa 
13 


194  Old  Belgium 

fell  upon  her  knees  before  an  image  of  the  Virgin  praying: 
"  O  Mother  of  Mercies,  grant  us  grace  serenely  to  face 
what  fate  thou  sendest  us." 

"The  fate  she  sendeth  at  this  present,"  I  observed, 
"is  a  castle  brimming  with  guests,  and  thy  burdened 
mother  to  provide  them  entertainment." 

"I  have  need,"  Philippa  answered,  "to  set 
my  mind  in  order  and  to  ponder  what  this  may 
mean." 

"  Canst  divine, "  I  asked,  "who  these  strange  visitants 
maybe?" 

"Yea,  it  comes  upon  me  that  they  are  their  Puissant 
Highnesses  Isabella  Queen  of  England  and  the  Crown 
Prince  Edward." 

"If  so  it  be,"  I  exclaimed,  "more  need  that  we  set 
our  robes  in  order  than  our  minds;  for  'tis  thy  parents' 
part  to  ponder  on  the  destiny  of  nations,  and  ours 
to  aid,  though  we  may  not  understand."  With  that  I 
speedily  robed  myself  and  it  was  time,  for  the  torches 
were  waxing  spectral  in  the  grey  of  morn.  Presently 
the  Countess  repaired  to  our  chamber  to  tell  us  the 
tidings.  The  slender  youth  was  indeed  Edward, 
Prince  of  Wales,  who  with  his  mother  found  harbourage 
with  us  in  their  sore  distress. 

His  father,  Edward  II.  of  England,  was  a  man  of 
moody  and  suspicious  humour,  who,  being  played  upon 
by  base  favourites,  had  conceived  an  unreasoning 
hatred  for  his  wife,  Isabella,  sister  of  Charles,  King  of 


"An  It  Please  Thee,  Philippa"       195 

France.  The  dark  humours  of  Edward  so  frighted  his 
Queen  that,  believing  her  life  in  danger,  she  fled  with 
her  youthful  son  to  France.  Lovingly  was  she  received 
by  her  royal  brother,  until  the  Pope  commanded  Charles 
to  return  his  erring  sister  to  her  rightful  lord. 

The  King  of  France,  a  pious  and  peaceful  diplomat, 
therefore  begged  his  sister  to  quit  his  country  without 
acquainting  him  of  her  destination.  Well  he  knew 
that  she  could  claim  but  one  refuge,  Valenciennes,  for 
the  Countess  of  Hainault  was  her  cousin-german,  and 
her  husband  kind  to  all  in  adversity.  Sire  Jean  of 
Hainault  also  was  a  chevalier  panting  for  glory,  burn- 
ing to  do  doughty  deeds  in  behalf  of  distressed  ladies, 
and  most  ardently  for  those  of  comely  face  and  grateful 
disposition. 

Therefore  when  a  messenger  from  Queen  Isabella 
arrived  craving  hospitality  for  his  mistress,  the  parents 
of  Philippa  despatched  Sire  Jean,  who,  with  a  squadron 
of  fivescore  horse,  escorted  the  Queen  of  England  to 
the  castle.  Here  they  rested  with  most  courteous 
entertainment.  Though  their  presence  was  not  pub- 
licly proclaimed  yet  there  were  ever  noble  knights 
coming  and  going,  endless  colloquies,  and  high  feast- 
ing in  hall.  It  transpired  that  Sire  Jean  was  raising  an 
army,  with  the  aid  of  many  lords,  to  invade  England 
under  Queen  Isabella  and  wreak  judgment  upon  her 
foes.  While  the  hot-headed  youths  were  eager  for  this 
foray,  the  elders,  among  them  Earl  Guillaume,  were 


196  Old  Belgium 

reluctant,  misdoubting  what  fell  disasters  such  ven- 
ture might  involve. 

"By  Goddes  fay!"  I  heard  him  exclaim,  "let  our 
Cousin  Isabella  bide  here  forever,  with  her  son,  but  as 
for  espousing  a  quarrel  not  mine  own,  and  crossing 
swords  with  King  Edward  and  my  liege  lord  Charles  of 
France,  that  will  I  not." 

But  Sire  Jean  was  ill  content.  Ruth  for  the  Queen's 
sad  state  had  kindled  every  spark  of  chivalry  in  his 
being,  and  her  beauty  had  fanned  it  into  a  devouring 
flame. 

In  these  intrigues  and  dissensions  Prince  Edward, 
youthful  and  inert,  bore  no  part.  He  favoured  his 
mother  in  feature  alone,  was  of  a  sweet  and  tractable 
nature,  content  to  defer  to  her  opinion  in  all  things. 
His  days  were  spent  with  the  daughters  of  the  house; 
ofttimes  hawking  in  the  forest  of  Saint  Amand,  but  for 
the  most  part  keeping  close  within  the  castle  walls. 
Nor  did  he  weary  of  our  company;  winding  our  wools, 
singing  madrigals,  acquiring  the  steps  of  our  dances, 
and  teaching  us  in  turn  those  of  his  country. 

Our  favourite  meeting-place  was  a  little  walled 
pleasaunce.  Here,  though  overlooked  by  the  casements 
of  the  castle,  we  felt  ourselves  in  perfect  privacy  and 
would  chatter  and  sing  at  our  ease.  Mayhap,  had  we 
known  that  every  word  we  uttered  could  be  overheard 
by  anyone  in  the  hall,  we  might  have  been  less  loqua- 
cious. 


"An  It  Please  Thee,  Philippa"       197 

One  day  the  family  held  a  most  battlesome  argument 
regarding  the  invasion  of  England.  "Heap  of  pigs! 
let  there  be  an  end  to  this  madness,"  shouted  the  Earl. 
"I  maintain  that  it  is  the  part  of  Hainault  to  keep  one 
eye  on  the  skirts  of  France  and  the  other  on  the  crown 
of  England!" 

"'Twere  a  skew-eyed  diplomacy,"  murmured  Queen 
Isabella;  "I  misdoubt,  cousin  Guillaume,  that  both 
thine  eyes  would  fain  follow  French  skirts." 

"  If  thou,  Jean, "  Earl  Guillaume  resumed,  unheeding, 
"wilt  forth  upon  this  mad  venture,  I  can  neither  let  nor 
hinder  thee;  but  I  shall  send  no  spearmen  beyond  the 
bounds  of  Hainault,  seeing  that  I  have  a  mort  of 
troubles  of  mine  own." 

"What  troubles,  sweet  cousin?"  asked  the  Queen  of 
England. 

"Marry  a  sufficiency,  but  none  which  thou  canst 
assuage,"  the  Earl  replied.  "Doth  it  not  suffice  that 
I  must  provide  husbands  and  dowries  for  a  score,  more 
or  less,  of  marriageable  daughters?" 

"A  score  is  indeed  a  sufficiency  in  the  matter  of 
daughters,"  laughed  the  Queen,  "and  I  can  but  com- 
mend thy  motherly  anxiety  to  see  these  maidens  well 
bestowed." 

Opening  the  casement  she  looked  down  upon  the  pleas- 
aunce,  where  it  fortuned  that  Philippa  and  the  Prince 
were  culling  cherries  from  each  other's  lips.  The  sound 
of  their  laughter  mounted  like  music  to  the  oriel  above. 


198  Old  Belgium 

"Sweet  coz,  why  wilt  thou  not  believe?"  the  Prince 
was  pleading.  "I  love  thee  beyond  life."  With  that 
a  sudden  hush  fell  upon  the  elders  who  listened  in- 
tently. "  So  utterly  do  I  love  thee,  Philippa, "  pursued 
the  Prince,  "that  I  will  abandon  thought  of  returning 
to  England  and  bide  here  alway,  if  thou  wilt  wed  with 
me." 

"Thy  Queen  Mother,"  Philippa  doubted,  "would 
ne'er  consent." 

"Ay,  that  would  she  not,"  he  echoed,  "but  not- 
withstanding, so  thou  biddest  me,  for  the  nonce,  I 
will  defy  her." 

Philippa  laughed.  "Nay  she  would  pack  thee  in  her 
wallet,  and  bear  thee  home  willy  nilly,"  she  jibed. 
Then  more  seriously:  "Thinkest  thou,  Edward,  I  would 
have  thee  renounce  thy  kingdom  for  my  sake?  Nay, 
thou  must  depart  at  the  head  of  an  army  and  win  thy 
throne  by  dint  of  arms." 

"An  thou  wilt  accompany  me,  Philippa  mia?"  the 
Prince  implored.  "Will  thy  father  send  his  spear- 
men to  aid  me?" 

"My  sire  doth  ever  in  all  things  as  I  desire, "  Philippa 
replied  confidently. 

At  this  Guillaume  of  Hainault  drew  a  long  breath, 
but  made  no  protest.  Philippa  proceeded  serenely: 
"  Look  thee,  Edward,  I  can  wind  Uncle  Jean  also  about 
my  finger  thus" — she  twisted  a  strawberry  tendril 
ring- wise  about  her  thumb.     "No  one  hath  e'er  denied 


"An  It  Please  Thee,  Philippa"       199 

me  aught,  nor  wilt  thou,  cousin,  an  thou  lovest  me.  Go 
thou  without  me;  but  if  thou  gainest  the  victory " 

"Then,  an  it  please  my  royal  mother,  I  shall  return 
and  wed  thee." 

"  Nay, "  she  said,  holding  him  at  arm's  length.  "  Say 
that  otherways,  Cousin  Edward,  say — 'I  will  come — 
an  it  please  thee,  Philippa.' " 

Dutifully  he  repeated  his  lesson  and  she  yielded  her 
lips. 

"Eh,  bien!  Guillaume,"  demanded  the  Queen  clang- 
ing the  casement.  "What  sayest  thou,  shall  I  have 
the  spears?" 

"In  the  name  of  Saint  Judas  take  them!"  cried  the 
Earl,  "and  begone  to  thine  accursed  islet.  Philippa 
hath  reason,  I  can  deny  her  naught." 

The  campaign  [continues  Marguerite]  whereby  was 
accomplished  the  coronation  of  this  prince,  I  shall 
not  attempt  to  recount,  for  it  hath  been  ably  chronicled 
by  one  Jean  Froissart,  of  whom  more  hereafter.  Suffice 
it  to  say  that  on  Christmas  day  of  that  same  year 
Edward,  third  of  that  name,  was  crowned  in  the  Abbey 
of  Westminster. 

Having  accomplished  their  mission,  Sire  Jean  and 
his  company  of  lance  returned  to  Hainault  with  high 
honour. 

Thereafter  came  to  Valenciennes  a  deputation  led 
by  the  Bishop  of  Lichfield,  in  the  name  of  the  King  of 
England,  to  demand  of  Earl  Guillaume  the  hand  of  his 


200  Old  Belgium 

daughter.  Then  arose  a  contrariety  of  fate  which 
well-nigh  brought  these  proposals  to  naught.  For  the 
deputation  did  not  specify  the  daughter  desired. 
Queen  Isabella  having,  as  was  afterward  known, 
blotted,  in  the  instructions  of  Edward,  the  name 
Philippa  from  before  the  words  "most  beauteous 
daughter,"  for  she  feared  she  would  not  be  able  to 
rule,  as  dowager,  a  daughter-in-law  of  so  domineering 
a  spirit. 

So  now  was  the  good  prelate  of  Lichfield  in  a  sorer 
dilemma  than  was  Paris,  since  it  would  seem  that  it 
was  left  to  his  judgment  to  decide  which  of  the  daughters 
of  Earl  Guillaume  was  most  beauteous. 

Philippa,  piqued  for  that  she  alone  had  not  been 
besought,  was  possessed  of  all  contumaciousness  to 
render  herself  unhandsome  both  in  act  and  person. 
Malcontent  were  we  all  that  she  should  do  herself  this 
despite;  but  none  dared  reveal  the  true  state  of  her 
affections,  her  father  having  enjoined  us  to  hold  our 
tongues. 

"Par  dieu!"  he  roared,  "if  Philippa  is  minded  not  to 
marry,  so  be  it ;  but  I  have  full  many  daughters  to  dis- 
pose, therefore,  in  the  name  of  all  mercies,  let  me  not 
that  I  rid  myself  of  one!" 

It  fortuned,  through  no  malfeasance  on  her  part, 
that  the  worthy  Bishop  leaned  more  especially  toward 
Joanne.  One  day  discovering  her  alone  in  the  garden 
pleasaunce  he  implanted  upon   her  reluctant  finger 


"An  It  Please  Thee,  Philippa*       201 

the  ruby  ring  of  betrothal,  with  which  he  had  been 
entrusted  by  the  King. 

"I  can  in  no  wise  accept  this  great  gage,"  she  pro- 
tested, "for  well  I  know  that  King  Edward  loves  me 
not,  but  my  sister  Philippa." 

"And  from  what  I  have  learned  of  the  contrariety 
of  thy  sex,"  exclaimed  the  Bishop,  "I  trow  upon  my 
soul  that  she  requiteth  his  affection.  Take  her  the 
ring ;  an  it  please  Philippa,  this  shall  be  the  end  of  my 
embassy." 

Joanne,  loyally  devoted  to  her  sister,  had  a  most 
overweening  conceit  in  her  own  judgment,  and  having 
decided  what  were  good  to  be  done  conferred  with 
none  other.  As  Heaven  sendeth  succour  through 
most  unlikely  ministers,  it  chanced  there  came  to  her 
in  this  extremity  a  certain  page  of  the  Countess, 
yclept  Jean  Froissart. 

He  was  a  pallid  youth  with  a  gleaming  light  in  his 
great,  grey  eyes,  which  made  many  to  deem  that  he 
wandered  in  his  wits;  but  of  this  he  gave  no  other  sign 
save  that  he  had  contracted  a  spiritual  passion  for  me. 
This  in  despite  the  variance  in  our  rank  and  that  I  was 
a  damsel  older  than  himself,  who,  lacking  the  intellect 
to  comprehend  his  superiority,  flouted  him  with  un- 
ceasing contumely. 

This  Froissart  had  a  trick  of  spoiling  good  parch- 
ment with  poesy ;  ballads,  rondeaus,  villanelles,  canzons, 
and  I  know  not  what  other  love-longing  screeds,  for 


202  Old  Belgium 

the  most  part  in  praise  of  mine  eye-brows,  nose,  finger- 
nails, and  other  less  displayed  members  of  my  person. 
These  verses  I  had  ever  singed  with  the  flame  of  ridicule, 
but  Philippa,  who  had  a  nicer  taste  in  letters,  judged 
them  meritorious. 

The  quaint  conceit  occurred  to  Joanne  that,  since 
Philippa  was  piqued  because  the  King  had  not  written 
her,  Froissart  might  perform  this  service  in  his  stead. 
To  the  scribe  therefore  she  resorted  and  demanded 
this  devoir,  which  he  most  joyfully  performed. 

Swearing  him  to  secrecy,  Joanne  thrust  the  verses 
within  the  casket  containing  the  ring  and  hastened  to 
her  sister.  Philippa  opened  the  Pandora  box  and  out 
tumbled  ring,  missive,  and  a  host  of  troubles  that 
afterwards  ensued,  but  of  which,  for  the  moment,  she 
was  unaware,  so  engrossed  was  she  with  perusal  of 
the  verses,  feigned  to  have  been  writ  her  by  Edward. 

Feasting  her  hungry  heart  upon  his  love,  thus  read 
Philippa: 

MADONNA  MIA 

Thou  arte  lovesome,  my  litel  Philippa, 

And  thy  presaunce  a  melodye  swete, 
From  the  smile  of  thy  wondrous  red  lippe,  ah! 

To  the  tips  of  thy  flutteringe  feete, 
That  flitte  neath  thy  farthingale  folden 

Like  mothes  through  the  twilyghte  so  fleete, 
Sudden  seene,  and  as  soone  unbeholden, 

Philippa,  my  Ladye  discrete ! 


"An  It  Please  Thee,  Philippa"       203 

Fayre  thou  arte,  as  a  visione  Elysian, 

And  thy  haire  like  a  streme  ever  free, 
Or  a  flame  by  the  vagrante  wind  driven, 

Flowes  in  waywardnesse  down  to  thine  knee. 
As  the  froth  of  the  runnel  is  riven 

To  the  foame  of  the  bountiful  sea, 
So  my  love,  like  a  rivulet  given, 

I  poure,  my  Philippa,  to  thee! 

Not  Helena  of  Troye  was  so  peerlesse, 

So  resplendently  lissome  of  limbes, 
Nor  Diana,  the  moone-godesse  fereles, 

But  thy  lustre  their  beautee  bedimmes. 
Fayre  of  face  and  of  forme,  but  yet  fayrer 

Thy  spiryte  of  boundles  delyghte, 
And  thine  aura  more  radiant  and  rarer 

Madonna,  my  Ladye  of  lyghte! 

II 

THE    REDINGOTE    ROUGE 

'Twas  a  red  riding-robe  [resumes  Marguerite]  of 
a  wondrous  shade!  Not  coral  of  roses,  nor  ruby 
of  Burgundian  wine;  but  such  a  glory  as  glows 
in  a  copper  cauldron,  when  living  flame  leaps 
therein ! 

Seeing  her  reflection  in  the  mirror  Philippa  cried: 
"Whate'er  the  cost,  in  none  other  robe  will  I  ride  to 
my  coronation." 

For  the  purchase  of  the  wedding  palliament  of 
Philippa,    mounted   upon   palfreys   and   escorted   by 


204  Old  Belgium 

servants  with  pack-horses  bearing  empty  chests,  we 
had  voyaged  to  Gand. ■ 

Here  we  were  entertained  by  Louis,  Prince  of  Nevers, 
Count  of  Flanders,  and  brother  of  the  French  King; 
but  not  altogether  as  we  had  anticipated. 

We  found  him  in  much  trepidation  because  of  an 
uprising  amongst  his  turbulent  Flemish  subjects. 
Though  they  had  sworn  allegiance  to  the  King  of  France 
it  misliked  these  stiff-necked  burghers  sorely  to  be 
ruled  by  a  foreigner,  and,  holding  council  in  their 
guild-halls,  they  framed  laws  in  the  Count's  despite. 

Assembling  in  the  city  square  the  rabble  were 
harangued  by  a  demagogue,  one  Jacques  van  Artevelde, 
who  incited  them  to  refuse  payment  of  the  French 
imposts.  Whereupon  the  worthy  burghers  soused  the 
unhappy  tax-collector  in  the  Scheldt  whence  he  luckily 
scrambled  from  a  slimy  death. 

With  an  eye  to  placating  the  ringleaders  the  Count 
invited  them  to  a  banquet  at  the  castle,  where  they 
might  rehearse  their  grievances. 

The  seneschal  had  removed  all  cushions  from  the 
chairs,  saying  it  irked  him  sore  that  their  bright  brocade 
should  be  besmutted  by  the  burgher's  greasy  breeches. 
These  witless  words  were  conveyed  to  them  by  I  know 
not  what  busybody,  as  spoken  by  the  Count  himself. 

Upon  their  entrance,  therefore,  each  burgher  ostenta- 
tiously removed  his  richly  furred  cloak,  folded,  and 

1  Ghent  at  this  time  was  the  mart  of  the  world  for  textiles. 


The  Grim  Gravensteen 


Chateau  of  the  Count  of  Flanders 


s 

It 

+>  •-' 
a    >. 

•a  * 

a 

O      l- 

>>  s 

4J      O 

ja     a 
a>     2 

i 


"An  It  Please  Thee,  Philippa"       205 

sate  him  down  upon  it,  the  toast-master  shouting  the 
whiles:  "This  we  do,  Sir  Count,  that  our  breeches 
may  not  be  soiled  by  thy  greasy  benches." 

Endeavouring  to  reply,  they  drowned  his  voice  by 
hammering  upon  the  table  with  their  tankards. 

Whereupon,  Van  Artevelde  informed  the  Count  in  no 
ambiguous  terms  that  he  was  but  a  figure-head  upon 
the  prow  of  the  ship  of  state;  and  as  such,  it  was  his 
devoir  to  be  borne  whither  the  mariners  willed. 

This  oratory  was  greeted  with  a  tempest  of  applause 
and  the  assemblage  took  its  departure.  To  the  sene- 
schal's reminder  that  they  were  leaving  their  cloaks 
behind  them  Van  Artevelde  answered:  '"Tis  not  the 
habit  of  the  burghers  of  Ghent,  when  invited  to  a 
banquet,  to  bear  away  the  cushions!" 

That  night  the  Count,  more  in  anger  than  in  fear, 
departed  the  castle  by  a  secret  way,  to  demand  of  the 
King  of  France  the  chastising  of  these  contumelious 
rascals. 

He  left  as  our  safeguard  his  son,  young  Louis  de 
Male;  and  counselled  us,  as  disorders  might  arise  when 
his  evasion  was  known,  to  hasten  our  visits  to  haber- 
dashers and  mercers.  This  we  did  on  the  morning 
following,  gathering  together  a  deal  of  frippery  of 
various  sorts,  and  experiencing  no  untoward  behaviour. 

But  on  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day  on  revisiting 
certain  shops  where  we  had  already  bought  considerably, 
we  were  ware  that  there  were  consultations  between 


206  Old  Belgium 

the  knaves  who  displayed  the  goods  and  their  principals, 
before  we  were  served  according  to  our  desires;  and 
that  when  they  were  bidden  deliver  our  purchases  at 
the  castle  of  the  Count  of  Flanders,  advance  payment 
was  demanded,  and  strict  inquiry  made  as  to  the  names 
of  the  purchasers. 

Still  all  went  well  until  Philippa  spied  the  scarlet 
riding-robe  of  which  I  have  spoken,  wherewith  was 
confederated  a  marvellous  conical  coiffure,  above  an 
ell  in  height,  with  a  veil  of  fine  Brussels  net,  envelop- 
ing it  as  mists  swirl  about  a  mountain  peak.  When 
Philippa  spied  herself  topped  by  this  stupendous 
structure,  she  caught  my  arm  with  a  little  gasp  of 
delight. 

' !  It  is  like  a  cathedral  spire ! ' '  she  whispered.  ' '  Think 
you  that  so  crowned  e'en  the  Queen  Mother  herself  can 
look  down  upon  me!" 

The  shopkeeper  took  himself  off  after  receiving  his 
gold,  and  through  an  open  door  I  caught  a  glimpse  of 
him  running  toward  the  Cloth  Hall.  The  shopkeeper's 
wife  delayed  us  unconscionably  in  the  wrapping  of 
the  parcel,  but  at  last  it  was  ready  and  we  set  out  for 
the  castle.  At  the  door  we  were  overtaken  by  a  body 
of  halberdiers,  who  desired  us,  not  over-civilly,  to 
accompany  them  to  the  Cloth  Hall. 

Hither  arrived  we  were  taken  into  a  great  room  where 
a  number  of  burghers  were  seated  about  a  table,  and 
in  their  midst  one  to  whom  all  deferred,  whom  I  recog- 


"An  It  Please  Thee,  Philippa"       207 

nized  at  once  as  Jacques  van  Artevelde.  At  Count 
Louis's  banquet  where  he  and  his  fellows  had  done  such 
despite  to  the  courtesy  of  their  host,  I  had  seen  him  only 
from  a  distance  and  had  been  impressed  solely  by  his 
barbarous  arrogance  of  bearing,  and  the  insolence  of  his 
speech.     His  manner  had  been  boorish,  but  masterful. 

Swaggering  to  the  dais  where  the  Count  sate  he  had 
snapped  his  ringers  in  his  lordship's  face.  Louis  of 
Flanders  had  turned  deadly  pale  for  well  he  knew  that 
had  Van  Artevelde  given  the  signal,  the  burghers 
would  have  torn  him  in  pieces.  But  as  he  stood  there, 
with  his  sturdy  legs  far  apart  to  support  his  great  body 
and  his  head  thrown  back  in  derision,  it  had  pleased 
him  to  insult  and  banter  his  master  rather  than  to  do 
him  bodily  injury.  I  had  feared  and  loathed  him 
then,  as  the  embodiment  of  brute  strength  and  vulgar 
humour,  which  scrupled  as  little  at  risking  his  life  as 
at  throwing  away  his  mantle  for  the  sake  of  an  insolent 
jest.  I  feared  him  still  more  now  as  I  faced  the  shrewd 
keenness  of  the  relentless  eyes,  which  peered  upon  us  from 
between  his  narrowed  eyelids,  while  another  burgher 
questioned  us  as  to  our  names,  our  place  of  residence,  the 
reason  for  our  presence  in  Ghent,  and  other  matters. 
To  all  of  these  questions  Philippa  replied  truthfully, 
while  Van  Artevelde  relaxed  slightly  his  searching  gaze. 

The  interrogatory  ended  he  spoke  as  one  accus- 
tomed to  command.  "Thy  deposition  tallies  with  our 
information.     Tell  us,  demoiselle,  with  equal  frank- 


208  Old  Belgium 

ness,  for  whom  you  have  purchased  habiliments  of 
such  extraordinary  quantity  and  quality  as  to  awaken 
the  suspicion  that  they  are  not  intended  for  the  family 
of  the  thrifty  Count  William  of  Hainault,  or  to  be  worn 
in  an  inconsiderable  burgh  like  that  of  Valenciennes. 
This  dress  for  instance — "  and  a  servitor  displayed  the 
unfortunate  purchase  which  had  drawn  us  into  the 
trap.  "This  piece  of  extravagance  is  fit  for  a  Queen's 
robe;  and  the  cloth  merchants  of  Ghent  have  sworn 
that  none  of  their  handiwork  shall  be  flaunted  at  the 
Court  of  the  King  of  France." 

Philippa  laughed  merrily.  "  I  love  Philip  of  Valois  as 
little  as  thou, ' '  she  replied.  ' '  My  betrothed  by  right  shall 
one  day  reign  in  his  stead.  'Tis  sooth  the  robe  will  adorn 
a  sovereign,  since  I  shall  wear  it  as  Queen  of  England." 

Van  Artevelde  sprang  to  his  feet  and  doffed  his  hat. 
The  others,  following  his  example,  saluted  humbly. 

A  greybeard  muttered,  "How  do  we  know  that  this 
is  true?" 

"By  her  face,  man,"  cried  Van  Artevelde.  "The 
robe  is  thine,  my  lady,  a  wedding-gift  from  the  drapers 
of  Ghent.  If  ever  thou  hast  favours  to  ask  of  Flanders, 
command  thy  servitor  Jacques  van  Artevelde!" 

in 

HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD  NEWS  FROM  SLUYS  GHENT 

Dolefully  lagged  the  days  following  the  wedding 
of  Philippa,  alone  with  my  parents  in  the  chateau  of 


"An  It  Please  Thee,  Philippa"       209 

the  Dukes  of  Brabant,  whose  foundations  were  laid  by 
Caesar  on  the  mount  o'erlooking  Louvain. 

Lonely  and  listless  I  waited  in  that  moated  keep, 
for  I  would  have  none  of  all  the  noble  seigneurs  who  had 
come  to  woo  me.  One  was  a  septuagenarian  who  had 
already  three  wives;  another  was  a  loutish  and  ill- 
favoured  stripling;  the  third  a  dissolute  and  effeminate 
ne'er-do-well. 

"What  wouldst  thou?"  bawled  my  father,  "must  we 
needs  summon  Saint  Sebastian  to  satisfy  thine  exigency? 
Thou  art  fit  for  naught  but  the  convent,  though  no  such 
shame  hath  ever  befallen  a  lady  of  our  house.  Why 
wilt  thou  not  wed  with  one  of  these?  Art  dying  of 
love  for  another  peradventure?" 

With  the  blood  tingling  my  cheeks,  for,  though  he 
knew  it  not,  that  chance  shot  of  my  father  had  gone 
home,  I  cried  out :  "  I  die  of  stagnation,  for  zest  of  life  and 
venture;  I  am  more  weary  of  this  castle,  where  naught 
doth  happen  than  was  Cicero  when  the  Nervii  besieged 
him  here,  for  alas!  no  Caesar  cometh  to  rescue  me." 

Then  my  heart  gave  a  leap  for  I  saw,  dismounting 
in  the  courtyard,  Jean  Froissart.  And  here  must  my 
secret  be  confessed,  that,  despite  all  my  raillery  and 
unhandsome  treatment  of  this  young  man,  his  poesies 
and  I  know  not  what  look  of  worship  in  his  sea-grey 
eyes  had  wakened  in  me  a  love  for  which  I  hated 
myself  and  him.  What,  forsooth,  was  a  poet-page, 
the  son  of  an  untitled  painter  of  other's  blazons,  to  one 
14 


210  Old  Belgium 

in  whose  veins  ran  the  blood  of  kingly  ancestors?  I 
taught  him  the  lesson  of  humility  so  thoroughly  that 
he  despaired  of  any  return,  and  went  with  Philippa  to 
England  as  clerk  of  her  chamber,  caster  up  of  her  ac- 
counts, and  writer  of  masques  and  madrigals.  He 
indited  me  many  hopeless  missives  during  his  exile,  one 
of  which,  a  certain  "villanelle  a  la  Margherite,"  I 
discovered  but  lately  'twixt  the  leaves  of  an  old  missal, 
where  it  hath  lain,  like  a  pressed  flower,  wasting  its 
fragrance  on  neglected  orisons  through  these  many 
years. 

VILLANELLE 

Fayrest  of  floures,  the  daisy  bryghte, 

Golde  and  white  with  a  face  demure; 
Fayre  is  the  floure  of  my  herte's  delighte. 

Pale  as  a  snowfloure  of  Alpine  heighte, 

Frail  as  a  lilie,  serene  and  pure; 
Fayrest  of  floures,  the  daisy  bryghte. 

Silver  her  soule  as  the  moonlite  nyghte, 

Golden  her  herte  as  the  sunset  sea; 
Fayre  is  the  floure  of  my  herte's  delighte. 

Chaste  as  the  blossome  that  lives  on  lighte, 

So  shal  I  live  on  thoughte  of  thee, 
Fayrest  of  floures,  my  daisy  bryghte! 

Homewarde  winging  onne  pinions  white, 
Myriad  doves  from  the  Northland  flee. 
Fayre  is  the  floure  of  my  herte's  delighte. 


"An  It  Please  Thee,  Philippa"       211 

Tireless  pinions  in  homing  flighte 

Would  that  thus  I  mighte  wing  to  thee, 
Fayrest  of  floures,  my  daisy,  bryghte, 
Fayrest  of  floures  my  herte's  delighte! 

Though  absence  had  in  no  wise  cured  him  of  a  devo- 
tion which  required  naught  in  return,  he  came  not  now 
of  his  own  behest  but  to  bring  me  tidings  that  Philippa 
was  in  Ghent,  whither  she  entreated  my  company. 
The  better  to  assist  him  with  her  judgment,  which  was 
oft  clearer  than  his  own,  she  had  accompanied  King 
Edward  to  Flanders. 

Philippe  of  Valois  was  dead,  and  it  was  the  desire  of  Ed- 
ward, though  not  of  France,  that  he  should  succeed  to  the 
throne.  Knowing  their  disaffection  for  Count  Louis,  he 
hoped  to  secure  the  aid  of  the  Flemings.  While  the  Count 
as  usual  in  such  exigencies  bided  not  to  greet  his  unwel- 
come guest  but  fled  precipitately  to  Paris,  leaving  his  son, 
Louis  de  Male,  to  receive  the  English  King  and  Queen. 

In  none  of  the  negotiations  with  the  municipality,  into 
which  Edward  now  entered,  was  the  young  Prince  con- 
sulted. Nor  was  the  King  able  to  gain  more  than  the 
mere  neutrality  of  the  Ghentois  in  a  treaty  whereby 
he  granted  them,  without  duty,  the  importation  of 
their  woollen  stuffs  into  England. ' 

1  Edward's  treaty  contained  this  clause: 

"We  have  agreed  with  the  good  folk  of  Flanders  that  they  must  not 
mix  nor  intermeddle  in  any  way  by  assistance,  in  men  or  arms,  in  the 
wars  of  our  lord  the  King  and  the  noble  Sir  Philip  of  Valois,  who  holdeth 
himself  for  King  of  France." 


212  Old  Belgium 

Philippa  persuaded  her  lord  to  permit  her  to  tarry  in 
Ghent  while  he  mustered  his  army  in  England.  "Thou 
mayest  give  out,"  quoth  she,  "that  I  am  unable  to 
voyage  and  I  will  win  over  to  thee  this  flint-hearted 
Van  Artevelde." 

The  reason  given  by  Philippa  for  not  returning  to 
England  was  an  honest  one.  She  was  soon  to  become 
a  mother.  I  bided  with  her  in  the  convent  of  St. 
Bavon ;  while  surrounded  by  secret  treachery  and  open 
hatred,  wrung  with  anxiety  for  the  safety  of  her  hus- 
band she  awaited  in  fortitude  her  hour  of  trial. 

Three  staunch  friends  we  had:  Jacques  van  Arte- 
velde, who  had  worshipped  Philippa  from  the  time  she 
defied  him  in  the  Cloth  Hall;  Louis  de  Male,  than  in 
whom  the  word  gentleman  had  never  a  truer  showing, 
and  Froissart,  faithful  as  a  hound. 

That  I  did  not  then  deem  him  so  I  must  now  explain, 
and  should  his  eyes  e'er  fall  upon  this  chronicle  he  will 
understand  why  I  then  treated  him  with  such  un- 
deserved misprision. 

One  night  when  Philippa  deemed  me  sleeping,  I  saw 
her  take  from  her  bosom  a  poem  and,  reading  it  beneath 
the  hanging-lamp,  kiss  it  passionately.  She  fell  asleep 
holding  it  to  her  heart,  but  with  a  grasp  so  relaxed  that 
a  light  breath  of  wind  carried  it  toward  the  hearth. 
Fearing  that  a  token  she  so  greatly  treasured  might 
be  burned,  I  stole  from  my  couch  to  restore  it  to  her. 

The  familiar  script  was  not  to  be  mistaken,  for  I  had 


"An  It  Please  Thee,  Philippa"       213 

received  too  many  love-poems  in  the  same  hand  not 
to  recognize  the  delicate  characters,  ere  the  words 
grouped  themselves  in  sentiment  and  style  identical 
with  those  dedicated  to  me.  Joanne  had  told  none  of 
us  of  the  stratagem  by  which  Froissart  had  won  Philip- 
pa's  heart  for  Edward,  and,  God  pardon  me  my  evil 
surmise,  I  thought  at  that  moment  the  page  had 
dared  woo  her  for  himself. 

As  I  replaced  the  poem  in  Philippa's  hand  my  own 
trembled  so  that  she  awoke,  and  I  explained  how  I 
came  by  it. 

"Read  the  words,  dear,"  she  said,  "and  tell  me 
am  I  not  the  most  blessed  of  women  to  be  honoured 
by  such  love?" 

I  was  mute  with  indignation  that  such  a  thing  should 
be.  Never  could  I  bring  myself  to  speak  to  her  of  the 
poem,  and  pity  it  was  that  I  did  not,  for  so  my  false 
imaginings  might  have  been  dispelled. 

With  Froissart  I  was  more  frank,  for  when  next  he 
offered  me  verses,  I  flung  them  in  his  face  bidding 
him  give  them  to  "Philippa,  his  Lady  discrete." 

He  made  as  though  he  did  not  understand. 

"She  shewed  the  poem  to  me,"  I  said;  "thou  canst 
not  deny  that  thou  didst  write  'Madonna  Mia.'" 

"Didst  thou  tell  her  thou  knewest  it  for  my 
pencraft?" 

"Nay,  much  more  to  the  purpose  were  it  to  certify 
the  King." 


214  Old  Belgium 

"He  knoweth,"  Froissart  replied  impudently.  "He 
praised  my  skill  when  we  were  alone,  and  wished, 
poor-slow-of-wit,  that  he  could  write  as  winsomely. 
Good  care  took  he  not  to  admit  the  truth  to  his 
Queen." 

Still  we  played  at  cross-purposes.  "He  is  wondrous 
complaisant,"  I  said  scornfully.  "Since  thou  hast 
found  a  mistress  who  doth  so  appreciate  thy  poesies 
thou  mayest  spare  thyself  the  pains  of  bestowing  them 
on  me." 

So,  to  make  it  manifest  to  Froissart  that  I  cared  not 
one  whit  for  him,  I  feigned  great  consideration  for 
Louis  de  Male,  who  oft  sate  with  us  in  the  cloistered 
garden.  For  Louis  was  lonely  and  sad,  feeling  himself 
the  sport  of  fate,  with  no  opportunity  to  show  forth  the 
courage  that  burned  within  his  soul.  His  eyes  were 
dark  and  appealing;  his  hair,  cut  straight  across  his 
forehead  and  falling  to  his  collar,  gave  him  a  boyish 
mien  though  he  was  trapped  in  knightly  guise.  On 
his  surcoat  the  lion  of  Flanders  ramped  in  rich  broidery 
and  beneath  was  a  coat  of  linked  mail,  for  he  walked  in 
daily  danger  of  the  assassin's  dagger.  He  knew  that 
Van  Artevelde  played  with  him  as  a  cat  with  a  mouse, 
that  he  was  a  prisoner  and  a  hostage,  and  yet  he  cringed 
to  no  one,  and  to  Van  Artevelde  was  more  haughty 
than  to  others. 

I  felt  a  profound  sympathy  for  this  noble  youth, 
while  Philippa  treated  him  with  tender  motherliness, 


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"An  It  Please  Thee,  Philippa"       215 

and  spake  often  of  her  wish  that  he  might  go  to  England 
and  know  her  children. 

Though  our  relations  were  outwardly  the  same,  I  was 
so  angered  with  my  friend  that  I  resented  even  these 
kindly  overtures.  "Is  it  not  enough,"  I  told  my 
envious  heart,  "that  she  hath  a  true  and  devoted  hus- 
band, but  she  must  filch  from  me  every  friend?" 
Later,  when  I  knew  from  Joanne  that  Philippa  imagined 
Edward  had  writ  her  the  poem,  I  understood  how  she 
had  worshipped  her  husband  in  every  line,  and  sorely 
I  repented  my  reasonless  jealousy.  But  now  it  stung 
me  to  win  the  affection  of  Louis  de  Mile,  an  all  too  easy 
conquest. 

One  morn  he  came  to  me  in  great  excitement:  "I 
must  bid  thee  farewell  for  a  little  space,"  he  said. 
"Secret  tidings  have  I  of  great  moment  which  I  will 
share  only  with  thee  and  the  Queen.  The  King  of 
France  hath  sent  a  fleet  of  four  hundred  sail,  under  the 
great  corsair  Barbenoir,  and  manned  by  thousands  of 
Genoese  archers;  their  mission  to  reinstate  my  father 
in  Flanders.  They  will  land  at  Sluys,  whither  I  haste 
to  lead  them  to  Ghent.  Should  the  Flemings  resist 
our  entry,  we  shall  slay  them  without  quarter." 

"Shall  we  be  endangered?"     I  asked  anxiously. 

"Nay,  I  have  given  thy  good  nuns  the  banner  of 
France,  bidding  them  fling  it  out  above  the  convent 
gate  when  the  troops  enter. 

"If  thou  lovest  us  thou  wilt  not  leave  us  in  this 


216  Old  Belgium 

peril,"  I  urged.  A  secret  lay  heavy  on  my  heart,  and 
I  could  not,  even  at  the  cost  of  disloyalty  to  Philippa, 
suffer  this  great-hearted  youth  to  go  to  certain  death. 
I  must  requite  confidence  with  confidence.  "Louis," 
I  implored,  "stir  not  from  Ghent;  for  the  King  of  Eng- 
land makes  for  Sluys  with  his  fleet.  A  great  battle  is 
imminent !  Bide  here,  to  protect  us  if  thy  father  wins, — 
that  we  may  protect  thee  if  Edward  of  England 
triumphs." 

"Nay,"  he  cried,  "the  more  reason  I  join  my  father 
and  fight  under  his  colours.  Fear  not  but  we  shall 
vanquish  our  foes!" 

"But  how  canst  thou  quit  the  city?"  I  asked. 
"Thou  wilt  be  halted  at  the  gates." 

"Beloved  lady,  I  trust  me  to  thine  aid.  Disguise 
me  as  a  varlet  of  the  Queen  of  England  and  I  shall  pass 
without  challenge ! " 

I  could  not  say  him  nay,  but  bade  Jean  Froissart 
have  my  palfrey  saddled,  and  provide  the  livery. 

Then  fell  from  the  lips  of  Louis  such  passionate 
words  as  I  had  ne'er  before  heard.  He  loved  me  with 
all  his  soul.  If  he  died  in  the  coming  encounter  I  must 
at  least  know  as  much.  If  he  lived  he  would  one  day 
ask  me  to  become  Countess  of  Flanders. 

My  heart  swelled  with  triumph  and  I  gave  him  my  lips 
in  pledge.  As  I  stood  enfolded  in  his  arms  entered  Jean 
Froissart.  The  scribe  turned  deadly  pale,  but  we  recked 
no  more  of  him  than  of  a  hound  or  other  soulless  creature. 


"An  It  Please  Thee,  Philippa"       217 

"Go  with  him,  Froissart,"  I  cried,  "and  serve  him 
well,  for  I  shall  hold  thee  answerable  for  his  life." 

"I  shall  be  true  to  the  trust,"  he  replied  bitterly, 
"the  only  one  with  which  thou  hast  ever  honoured 
me." 

Anon  I  saw  them  ride  away  together,  two  varlets 
of  Queen  Philippa  to  judge  from  their  garb,  little 
differing  in  outward  mien,  and  my  heart  misgave 
whether  I,  who  fancied  that  I  knew  them  so  well,  had 
better  knowledge  of  their  souls  than  any  chance 
observer. 

We  were  not  the  only  ones  who  were  ware  of  the 
coming  of  the  two  fleets.  The  streets  echoed  with  the 
clatter  of  marching  feet.  The  guilds,  clad  in  their 
white  hoods,  trooped  to  the  city  square,  bells  clanged 
and  tocsins  blared;  but  all  that  night  Philippa  battled 
for  her  life  unheeding  the  uproar  without.  With  the 
first  light  of  dawn  she  lay  white  and  still  with  that  smile 
of  perfect  peace  which  only  mothers  know,  gazing  upon 
her  new-born  son,  John  of  Ghent. 

Days  later  when  the  great  bell  Roland  shattered  the 
air,  and  the  reiterated  clangour  roused  her  at  last,  it 
was  as  though  she  were  emerging  from  great  depths  of 
sea.     A  wiidered  trouble  misted  her  eyes. 

"It  is  Roland,"  said  the  nun  at  her  side.  "There 
is  victory  in  the  land." 

"Who  has  conquered?"  Philippa  questioned  eagerly. 

"Who,  but  the  English!"  roared  a  voice  without  the 


218  Old  Belgium 

door,  which  Jacques  van  Artevelde  strove  to  modulate. 
"God  save  thy  Majesty,  I  go  to  carry  to  thy  royal 
spouse  tidings  of  thee  which  will  glad  him  yet  more. 
He  will  be  here  anon.  Meanwhile  let  not  this  knave 
of  thine,  who  brought  news  of  the  victory,  weary  thee 
with  his  chatter." 

He  thrust  Jean  Froissart  into  the  chamber,  very 
red  and  dusty,  his  legs  trembling  for  weariness  and 
eyes  shining  with  happy  tears. 

"Speak,  my  friend,"  murmured  the  Queen,  giving 
the  kneeling  clerk  her  hand  to  kiss.  "Tell  us  of  the 
battle  of  the  seas." 

"Sovereign  lady,  I  saw  not  all,  but  what  I  could 
descry  from  the  light-house  tower  was  glorious.  Like 
a  towering  forest  of  pine  the  French  fleet  filled  the  road- 
way, their  masts  furled  of  sails.  Par  dieul  but  I 
babbled  my  prayers,  as  the  English  ships  came  on, 
undaunted  though  outnumbered  two  to  one. 

"On  a  sudden  they  tacked  that  they  might  put  the 
sun  behind  them,  while  archers  let  fly  a  thousand 
shafts,  shouting  'Saint  George  for  Merrie  England!'" 

"Be  silent,  fool,"  I  said.  "Is  this  a  place  to  vent 
such  a  blast?  Thou  f lightest  the  infant,  and  as  for 
the  Queen's  grace "  , 

"  She  hath  not  supped  such  cordial  in  a  mort  of  days, " 
said  Philippa,  "the  babe  is  not  frighted,  I  pray  thee 
stint  not  thy  tale." 

"From   dawn   to  noon   the  combat  lasted,    Two 


"An  It  Please  Thee,  Philippa"       219 

hundred  and  thirty  French  vessels  surrendered  to 
King  Edward,  with  prisoners  I  know  not  how  many 
thousand.  But  this  I  saw,  that  only  one  swift-flying 
pinnace  escaped,  bearing  the  Count  of  Flanders.  The 
remaining  masts  of  all  that  endless  forest  sank  to  the 
depths  of  the  main." 

"Let  masses  be  chanted  for  the  dead,"  said  Philippa 
faintly,  while  I  seized  Froissart  by  the  arm  and  buffeted 
him  from  the  room. 

I  loosed  my  grip  after  we  had  passed  the  threshold. 
"And  Louis,"  I  shrilled,  "what  of  him?  Said  I  not 
thou  shouldst  be  answerable  for  his  life?" 

"He  is  safe,  dearest  lady;  with  these  arms  I  hindered 
him  from  leaping  into  the  sea!  He  was  clean  dis- 
traught, but  at  last  I  made  him  understand  that  a 
better  course  were  to  trust  himself  to  the  protection  of 
King  Edward." 

"Thou  didst  betray  him!"  I  cried.  "Thou  didst 
betray  him  to  his  enemy.  God  may  forgive  such 
treachery  but  ne'er  shall  I." 

IV 
HOW    FROISSART    FULFILLED    HIS    TRUST 

Much  mistook  I  the  character  of  Edward,  for  the 
event  proved,  as  I  shall  show  anon,  that  Louis  could 
have  done  no  wiser  thing  than  to  place  himself  in  the 
hands  of  the  King  of  England. 


220  Old  Belgium 

Edward  again  asked  the  Flemings  for  troops  to 
assist  him  in  his  war  with  the  French.  Van  Artevelde 
argued  his  case  with  much  casuistry  before  the  burghers, 
and  finally  replied  in  their  name. 

"Sire,  thou  hast  already  made  such  requests  to  us, 
and  verily  if  we  could  acquiesce  while  keeping  honour 
and  faith  we  would  do  so;  but  we  be  bound  (on  a 
bond  of  two  millions  of  florins,  entered  into  with  the 
Pope),  not  to  go  to  war  with  the  King  of  France,  on 
pain  of  that  debt,  and  of  excommunication.  But  if 
thou  wilt  perform  that  which  we  are  about  to  propose, 
namely:  adopt  the  arms  of  France  and  quarter  them 
with  those  of  England,  then  will  we  uphold  thee  for 
the  true  King  of  France,  and  will  go  whithersoever  thou 
shalt  ordain." 

To  this  Edward  answered  that  it  misliked  him  to 
assume  the  name  and  arms  of  a  country  to  which  he 
had  not  as  yet  acquired  the  title.  But  Philippa  urged 
him  to  assent  and  the  agreement  was  signed  and  sealed. 

The  rumour  ran  that,  in  return  for  this  good  turn, 
Edward  purposed  making  Van  Artevelde  Count  of 
Flanders.  But  there  still  remained  many  friends  of 
Louis  de  Male  who  declared  publicly  in  the  Guild 
Hall  that,  be  who  might  King  of  France,  they  would 
have  for  their  Count  neither  a  man  of  plebeian  birth 
nor  a  foreigner. 

Van  Artevelde,  whose  craft  exceeded  anticipation, 
voted   for    this   resolution,   which   was   passed   with 


"An  It  Please  Thee,  Philippa"       221 

acclamation,  then  mounting  on  that  high  wave  of 
enthusiasm,  he  cried:  "I  present  to  you  your  native- 
born  prince  of  noble  Belgian  lineage,  grandson  of  Guil- 
laume  of  Hainault  and,  by  his  mother's  choice,  born  in 
this  good  city,  John  of  Ghent  I" 

With  that,  robed  in  the  redingote  rouge,  Philippa 
entered  bearing  her  babe  in  her  arms,  whom  Van 
Artevelde  lifted  high  above  his  head,  while  the  whole 
assembly  joined  him  in  one  tremendous  shout:  "God 
save  the  Count  of  Flanders!" 

Thus  was  Louis  deposed  from  his  inheritance;  but 
Divine  Justice  suffered  not  the  subtle  Van  Artevelde 
to  prosper  in  his  crime.  When  the  English  had  de- 
parted, perceiving  how  they  had  been  tricked,  the 
fickle  Flemings  fell  to  quarrelling  among  themselves, 
many  contesting  that  Van  Artevelde  had  bartered 
them  to  the  English  (in  exchange  for  the  shipload  of 
wool  which  arrived  forthwith,  as  a  gift  from  Edward 
to  the  guild  of  weavers),  and  others  asserting  that  he 
had  rifled  the  public  treasury. 

Wrought  upon  to  a  frenzy,  a  volatile  and  passionate 
mob  surrounded  the  house  of  Van  Artevelde,  calling 
upon  him  to  come  forth  and  answer  to  these  charges. 
While  he  endeavoured  so  to  do,  from  his  open  window, 
he  was  stabbed  in  the  back  and  his  body  thrown  upon 
the  pavement,  where  it  was  trampled  by  those  whom  he 
had  so  lately  ruled  as  a  King. 

I  was  at  home  once  more  in  my  father's  castle,  and 


222  Old  Belgium 

of  such  contrarieties  is  our  nature  made  that  I  wept 
when  I  heard  the  news,  for  Van  Artevelde's  nature  was 
also  one  of  contrarieties.  He  was  a  staunch  friend  to 
Philippa,  now,  alas,  no  longer  a  friend  of  mine,  but  he 
was  also  a  friend  of  commercial  prosperity,  o'erween- 
ing  liberty  and  contumaciousness  against  my  own  class, 
who  questionless  should  rule  the  rabble  whether  they 
will  or  no. 

Edward,  bereft  of  Van  Artevelde's  support,  adroitly 
proposed,  for  the  pacification  of  all  parties,  that  Louis 
de  Male  should  wed  with  little  Princess  Isabel  of  Eng- 
land, and  the  Countship  of  Flanders  be  secured  to  their 
descendants,  without  lapsing  from  the  old  hereditary 
line.  Louis,  who  was  still  Edward's  prisoner,  had  no 
choice  but  to  consent,  and  was  betrothed  to  the  little 
maid. 

One  heart-broken  letter  I  received  from  him,  in  which 
he  protested  that  the  betrothal  was  but  a  ruse  and 
that  the  marriage  would  never  be  consummated.  No 
faith  had  I  in  these  protestations.  It  is  only  by  miracle 
that  men  marry  except  for  interest,  for  (even  when, 
were  they  free,  their  hearts  would  lead  them  other- 
where), men  and  women  of  our  condition  are  but 
puppets  to  be  pulled  by  the  cords  of  intrigue. 

The  English  army  was  besieging  Calais ;  but  Edward 
held  court  at  a  townlet  farther  north.  On  a  day  of 
the  same  week  in  which  Louis  de  Male  was  to  espouse 
the  princess,  he  obtained  permission  to  hunt  without  the 


"An  It  Please  Thee,  Philippa"        223 

gates.  He  was  closely  guarded,  but  at  a  certain  cross- 
roads the  falconer  flew  his  hawk  at  a  heron  and  Louis's 
companions  dashed  after  it. 

At  the  same  moment  the  Count  flew  his  hawk,  as 
though  at  other  prey,  and  galloped  across  the  fields  to 
the  cover  of  a  little  wood,  where  a  friend  was  in  waiting 
with  a  fresh  horse,  whereby  he  escaped  safely  to  Artois. 

And  if  any  who  read  this  chronicle  would  know  how 
I  came  by  this  knowledge  let  me  bear  witness  that  for 
once  the  miracle  has  been  wrought,  and  that  Louis, 
though  enmeshed  in  the  toils  of  circumstance,  yet  found 
a  way  to  break  through  and  seek  the  woman  he  loved. 

Our  marriage,  approved  by  the  King  of  France,  took 
place  in  my  father's  chateau  of  Louvain  and  now 
unites  in  one  the  two  provinces  of  Flanders  and  Bra- 
bant. There  was  hard  fighting  before  the  victory  of 
Roerbeke,  when  my  gallant  husband  came  to  his  own,  — 
for  the  burghers  had  the  audacity  to  cross  swords  with 
the  Knights  of  France  and  at  times  the  amazing 
fortune  to  vanquish  them.  At  Bruges  they  pulled 
down  from  the  belfry  the  golden  dragon,  which  Baldwin 
brought  from  Constantinople,  and  set  it  up  on  the 
belfry  of  Ghent,  where  it  now  waggles  with  each  shifting 
breeze,  to  threat  us  that  though  the  wind  of  fortune 
bloweth  now  our  way  it  may  shift  in  days  to  come. 

To  my  present  writing  the  weary  war  between  France 
and  England  still  continues.  In  the  battle  of  Crecy 
fell  Louis  de  Nevers,  whom,  from  that  event,  men  now 


224  Old  Belgium 

name  Louis  of  Crecy,  to  distingush  him  from  his  son, 
Louis  de  Male  the  present  Count  of  Flanders. 

Life  is  still  sweet  to  me ;  and  I  seem  to  see  it  stretch- 
ing on  in  a  long  vista  of  happiness  and  love  for  our  only 
child,  my  namesake,  who  is  soon  to  wed  with  Philippe 
le  Hardi,  Duke  of  Burgundy,  thus  placing  our  country 
under  his  powerful  protection.  God  grant  it  be  for 
peace! 

Philippa  lies  at  rest  in  the  Abbey  of  Westminster.1 
Did  her  heart  yearn  for  me  at  the  last  as  mine  has 
yearned  for  her? 

I  can  not  say,  for  we  have  not  met  since  that  day  in 
Ghent  when  I  parted  from  her  in  bitterness  of  spirit 
leaving  upon  Jean  Froissart  my  heart's  curse. 

Undeserved  it  was,  for,  as  Louis  has  since  made  clear 
to  me,  he  would  have  indubitably  been  slain  at  Sluys, 
or  thereafter  in  Ghent,  had  he  not  been  under  the 
protection  of  Edward,  through  whose  ruling  he  was 
established  Count  of  Flanders. 

1  Translation  of  the  Latin  epitaph  on  a  tablet  close  to  her  tomb  in 
Westminster  Abbey: 

"Faire  Philippe,  Wiliam  Hainault's  child  and  younger  daughter  deare, 
Of  roseate  hue  and  beauty  bright,  in  tomb  lies  billed  here; 
King  Edward  through  his  mother's  will  and  nobles'  good  consent 
Took  her  to  wife,  and  joyfully  with  her  his  time  he  spent. 
Her  uncle  John,  a  martial  man,  and  eke  a  valiant  knight 
Did  link  this  woman  to  this  king  in  bonds  of  marriage  bright. 
This  match  and  marriage  thus  in  blood  did  bind  the  Flemings  sure 
To  Englishmen,  by  which  they  did  the  Frenchmen's  wreck  procure. 
The  wife  of  Edward,  dear 
Queen  Philippe,  lieth  here." 


"An  It  Please  Thee,  Philippa"       225 

My  husband  hath  also  certified  me  that  the  man 
who  planned  his  final  escape,  who  waited  in  the  wood 
with  the  fleetest  steed  in  Edward's  stables,  and  who, 
changing  clothing  with  him,  curvetted  for  an  hour  in 
full  view  of  the  huntsmen,  so  that  they  deemed  Louis 
still  with  them,  was  none  other  than  Jean  Froissart! 

He  placed  a  parchment  in  the  hands  of  Louis.  "Thou 
wilt  give  her  this  from  me.  And  tell  her,"  Froissart 
added,  "when  thou  seest  that  laughing  love-light  in 
her  eyes,  that  I  was  true  to  my  trust." 

Thus,  great  heart,  would  Marguerite  acknowledge 
thee,  craving  forgiveness  upon  her  knees,  for  cruel 
words  spoken  in  ignorance  and  bitterly  repented. 

We  may  never  meet,  for  after  a  life  of  great  accom- 
plishment and  fame  thou  hast  cloistered  thyself  from 
the  world  within  a  monastery. 

I  am  an  old  woman,  many  undeserved  gifts  have 
been  mine,  but  none  that  touched  my  heart  more 
deeply  than  this  tribute  from  my  poet-lover : 

BALLADE 

Of  alle  the  floures  is  held  most  fayre  the  Rose, 
And  after  her,  the  gentil  Violette, 
Fayre  is  the  Floure  of  France  as  aught  that  blows, 
The  Peonie,  bryghte  belle,  a  gay  coquette; 
And  Valley-Lilie  payle,  her  eyeliddes  wet 
With  teres  of  dew  wept  from  a  bleedyng  herte. 
But  fayrest  of  Earth's  fragrant  coronet, 
0  Margherite,  the  floure  of  floures  thou  art ! 
is 


226  Old  Belgium 

For  what  betyde,  or  rain  or  haile  or  snowes, 
Sunshine  or  storm,  in  lyght  or  darknesse,  yet 
Thou  sheddest  joyance,  as  a  brooklet  flowes, 
Exhaustless  ever,  free  from  roile  or  fret, 
In  never-ceasing  streme;  a  fontaine  jet 
Of  parfaite  blis,  purled  from  a  laughing  herte, 
In  gladde  abondance,  runnes  thy  rivulet — 
0,  Margherite,  a  spring  of  joie  thou  art! 

About  the  garden,  wher  thy  beautee  shows 
Her  peerlesse  grace,  ther  runnes  a  parapette, 
Which  walles  me  out  and  thee  doth  safe  enclos, 
Howe'er  I  maye  the  battlemente  beset; 
But  though  the  goldene  key  I  ne'er  shal  get 
To  ope  the  portalles  of  thy  cinctured  herte, 
Stil  ever-blooming  live  without  regrette 
0,  Margherite,  my  Floure  of  Floures  thou  art! 

AFTER  FROISSART. 
AFTERWORD 

I  Benigne,  Abbot  of  the  Abbey  of  Saint do 

hereby  make  deposition  that  the  papers  sealed  herein 
are  those  of  our  worthy  brother  and  friend  Frere 
Boniface,  so  called  by  us  for  his  worthy  deeds,  and 
because,  as  a  page,  he  was  named  the  boy  of  the 
"bonny  face."  The  secular  world  knows  him  as  the 
chronicler  Jean  Froissart. 

To  these  manuscripts  found  in  his  scriptorium  I  have 
added  one  only  parcel,  brought  me  as  I  now  set  forth, 
to  wit.  Imprimis.  On  the  night  whereon  our  said 
Brother  Boniface  died,  a  wild  night  whereon  the  Prince 
of  the  Powers  of  the  Air  unchained  the  demons  of  the 


"An  It  Please  Thee,  Philippa"       227 

elements;  so  that  the  wind  wrenched  open  our  chapel 
doors  and  quenched  the  tapers  about  his  bier;  the 
surges  of  the  ocean  burst  their  bounds  and  invaded 
the  monastery,  we  walking  ankle-deep  in  sea-water. 
On  such  a  night  came  our  worshipful  lady,  Marguerite, 
Countess  of  Flanders,  praying  to  look  upon  the  face  of 
the  dead. 

Having  said  her  prayers  beside  the  bier,  she  besought 
that  she  might  enter  his  scriptorium.  This  being  but 
a  portion  of  the  organ-loft  and  not  sequestered  from  the 
secular  world  I  could  not  deny  her.  Here  was  a  small 
organ  at  which  our  said  brother  was  wont  to  improvise 
sacred  chants  and  music  of  wailful  sweetness,  and  here 
in  a  cubicle  beneath  the  window  and  upon  a  lectern 
were  his  papers. 

The  light  being  dim  our  worshipful  Countess  threw 
open  the  shutters  whereby  was  disclosed  a  sight  which 
I  cannot  even  now  but  regard  as  phantasmagoria  and 
sorcery,  for  there  in  the  midst  of  the  foaming  surges  were 
travelling-rocks,  coming  and  going  where  no  rocks  had 
erstwhile  been  seen  since  Maugis,  for  the  love  of  Dori- 
gen,  loosened  them  from  the  Breton  coast  and  sent 
them  on  pilgrimage.  When  I  made  mention  of  this 
the  Countess  answered:  "Well  mayst  thou  Maugis, 
so  honour  our  friend,  for  he  was  a  greater  enchanter 
than  thou." 

While  I  misdoubted  whether  this  prodigy  might 
foretoken  war,  the  worshipful  lady  laid  her  commands 


228  Old  Belgium 

upon  me  that  these  papers  should  be  scrupulously 
collected  and  preserved  with  others  which  she  confided 
to  me,  the  same  to  be  hidden  from  the  world  until  all 
of  this  generation  had  passed  away. 

The  Countess  having  knelt  once  more  on  the  wet 
pave  by  the  side  of  our  dead  brother  went  her  ways. 

I,  having  in  part  perused  these  chronicles  and  having 
found  them  not  of  a  religious  nature  but  dealing  with 
unedifying  and  ofttimes  ungodly  romances,  am  the  more 
willing  to  sequester  them,  walled  from  the  sight  of 
man.  The  which  act  the  abbey  mason  will  this  day 
perform,  to  the  avoidance  of  scandal  and  the  salvation 
of  weak  souls. 

Given  at  the  Abbey  of  St. 


PART  II 

WEBS   OF   OUDENAARDE 
VERDURE 

Arras  of  wonder  weft  on  Flemish  loom!  ^ 

With  patient  toil  her  craftsmen  did  devise 
Such  imagery  of  water,  earth,  and  skies, 

Bright  birds  in  canopies  of  bowered  bloom 

With  mingled  interlace  of  bosky  gloom 
As  Adam  might  have  seen  in  Paradise, 
Ere  yet  he  knew  the  laughter  of  Eve's  eyes 

And  ate  the  fruit  of  love  and  drank  its  doom. 

Old  tattered  tapestry  of  Oudenaarde, 

Mouldered  verdure,  slow  golding  through  the  years 
Into  the  sere  and  saffron  tint  of  dream; 
Calm,  moon-lit  glades  and  daisy-spangled  sward 

Where  pale  Pierrots  and  Columbines  in  tears 
Embark  to  Cytheria  on  Love's  stream. 

OTROLLING  aimlessly  down  the  rue  Rossignol  back 
^  of  the  beautiful  H6tel  de  Ville  of  Oudenaarde, 
on  a  misty  summer  evening,  my  attention  was  arrested 
by  an  archway  in  which  loomed  a  figure  armed  cap-a-pie 
in  shining  plate  from  visored  helm  to  gilded  spurs. 

It  was  as  though  some  knight  of  the  Middle  Ages 

229 


230  Old  Belgium 

stood  in  the  sally-port  of  his  castle  challenging  my 
right  of  entry.  But  the  arcade  he  guarded  led  only 
to  a  dingy  curio-shop,  through  whose  cluttered  bric- 
a-brac  I  threaded  my  mazeful  way  twixt  tarnished 
brasses,  gilded  crucifixes,  faded  brocades,  broken- 
nosed  cherubs,  tattered  missals,  and  stringless  viols  to 
a  dusky  chamber,  where  a  septuagenarian,  squinting 
through  great  goggles,  was  stringing  with  trembling 
fingers  a  rosary  of  beads. 

Behind  him,  sere  and  yellow,  hung  a  magnificent 
series  of  four  tapestries,  representing  the  procession  of 
Notre  Dame  du  Sablon.  Against  the  arras  roseate  in 
the  gleam  of  a  square  of  glass  from  some  forgotten 
rose-window  a  carven  cabinet  completed  the  back- 
ground of  a  picture,  which  recalled  an  interior  of  the 
old  Flemish  school. 

So  engrossed  in  his  task  was  the  custodian  that  he 
scarcely  noted  my  entry;  but  summoning  French  in 
lieu  of  Flemish  I  at  length  roused  him  from  his  reverie. 

" Qu'est-ce-que  Madame  desire?"  he  mumbled  quav- 
eringly .  ' '  Nous  avons  des  jolies  reliquaires,  les  dentelles 
de  Malines  et  de  Valenciennes,  des  tapisseries,  de  la 
bijouterie  et  des  objets  d'art." 

"What  is  the  price  of  that  tapestry?"  I  asked 
timidly. 

"Q a  ce  n'est  pas  a  vendre,"  croaked  the  curio  dealer. 
"It  is  the  property  of  the  government  and  comes  to  us 
from  the  Musee  du  Cinquantenaire  for  reparation.     It 


a 

is 

"o 
to 


2  C  a 

to  C  ■" 

•a  <u  c 

G  o  c 


The  Emperor  and  his  brother  Ferdinand  bear  the  litter  of  the  Virgin  " 


Tapestry — The  Legend  of  Notre  Dame  de  Sablon — Central  Panel 

From  La  Musee  Cinquanlenaire,  Brussels     ' 


Webs  of  Oudenaarde  231 

was  made  early  in  the  sixteenth  century  for  a  chapel 
built  by  the  Imperial  Postmaster.  See,  the  donateur 
kneels  in  the  corner  with  a  stamped  letter  in  his  hand. 
He  was  a  canny  courtier  and  complimented  the  family  of 
the  Emperor  by  putting  them  all  in  the  tapestry. 
Charles  himself  and  his  brother  Ferdinand  bear  the 
litter  of  the  Virgin;  and  here  is  Margaret  of  Austria 
and  the  Emperor's  sisters.  What  stories  these  tapes- 
tries could  tell,  eh! 

"  We  have  many  priceless  examples  sent  us  to  repair, 
in  such  a  state  as  Madame  cannot  imagine.  Regardez 
mot  $a!"  and  he  pointed  to  a  heap  of  tatters  upon  the 
floor.  "It  is  not  alone  the  moths;  those  little  beasts 
are  not  nearly  so  bad  as  men.  That  mass  of  rags, 
that  will  not  hold  itself  together,  hung  in  the  chateau 
of  Hougomont,  a  poor  chateau,  a  little  bit  of  arras,  but 
antic,  as  you  English  say,  vrai  antic,  and  it  should 
possess  interest  for  you,  for  it  is  shot  full  of  holes  which 
the  French  would  rather  have  put  in  the  breasts  of  your 
soldiers.  And  those  stains,  English  blood,  0  veritably 
English  blood!" 

Feeling  that  the  tatters  were  indeed  too  antic,  I 
turned  to  a  superb  specimen  of  the  verdures  of 
Oudenaarde,  so  called  because  the  subjects  chosen 
were  landscapes,  hunting  scenes  in  parks,  or  garden- 
parties  on  balustraded  terraces. 

This  particular  one  appeared  to  depict  an  embarque- 
ment  pour  Cythbre,  for    two   maskers  were    stealing 


232  Old  Belgium 

in  the  moonlight  to  a  little  boat  moored  at  the  foot 
of  a  flight  of  marble  steps.  A  troop  of  loves  were 
tugging  at  the  boat  with  garlands  of  roses,  and  nymphs, 
playing  upon  viols  and  harps,  were  leading  the  way  to 
the  fabled  country.  The  amorous  allegory  was  framed 
with  masses  of  blue-green  foliage  among  which  impos- 
sible macaws  and  parakeets  preened  their  plumage, 
while  peacocks  promenaded  statelily  upon  the  terrace. 

"Qa  ce  n'est  pas  a  vendre,"  reiterated  the  curio 
dealer.  "It  is  reserved  for  the  government  by  the 
Superintendent  of  Beaux  Arts.  It  came  from  a  castle 
near  Mons.  This  cabinet  also,  and  that  roll  of  tapestry, 
which  would  have  been  a  miracle  were  it  but  completed. 
Regard  me,  Madame!" 

He  unrolled  a  strip  scarce  two  feet  in  width,  but 
something  over  twelve  in  length,  displaying  a  portion 
of  a  web  most  "proudly  purposed  forth,"  as  the 
representation  of  a  tournament.  The  lower  half  only 
had  been  completed,  and  depicted  two  mounted 
knights,  spurring  furiously  together  with  lances  in 
rest.  The  weaver  had  ceased  his  labours  before  reach- 
ing their  casques,  so  that  they  presented  a  grotesque, 
decapitated  appearance.  The  caparisons  of  their  steeds 
were  blazoned  with  the  arms  of  the  contestants;  and, 
as  these  devices  were  repeated  upon  bannerets  held  by 
esquires  at  either  side,  I  fancied  they  would  not  be 
difficult  to  identify.  An  irresistible  longing  to  acquire 
this  mutilated  tapestry  took  possession  of  me. 


Webs  of  Oudenaarde  233 

"Qa  doit  avoir  une  histoire,  n'est-ce  pas,"  cackled 
the  curio  dealer,  divining  my  intent. 

"But  since  the  story  is  not  known,"  I  objected, 
"could  not  the  superintendent  of  Beaux  Arts  explain 
why  it  was  left  unfinished?" 

"No,  madame,  and  because  it  is  but  a  fragment  he 
took  no  interest  in  it.  Only  a  true  connoisseur  like 
Madame  could  appreciate  it." 

"And  this  cabinet,"  I  said  flippantly,  "is  doubt- 
less also  reserve  pour  le  gouvernement." 

"No,  Madame,  I  sacrifice  you  that  for  a  thousand 
francs.  A  veritable  occasion.  Of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury and  belonging  formerly  to  Margaret  of  Parma." 

"If  it  is  really  what  you  claim,  it  might  be  worth 
that  to  your  Superintendent,  but  not  to  me."  I  pre- 
tended to  examine  an  embossed  silver  casket,  while 
calculating  what  I  could  afford,  lest  the  greedy  shop- 
keeper should  guess  my  interest. 

"Madame  cannot  have  observed  the  workmanship," 
coaxed  the  crafty  old  fox.  "The  inlay  is  of  a  delicacy 
to  put  out  your  eyes,  the  arabesques  delicious  as  a 
drawing  by  the  great  Raphael."  As  he  spoke  he 
turned  a  filigreed  key;  the  heavy  doors  swung  back 
disclosing  tiers  of  drawers  inlaid  with  tortoise-shell. 

"Madame  sees  compartments  for  a  collection  of 
miniatures,  of  jewels,  of  whatever  curios  Madame  af- 
fects.    There  are  doubtless  secret  drawers." 

Here  my  cupidity  got  the  better  of  my  reason  and 


234  Old  Belgium 

I  was  about  to  exclaim:  "Very  well,  if  that  is  your  low- 
est figure";  but  a  lurking  eagerness  in  the  old  man's 
eyes  changed  my  response  to,  "That  price  is  out  of  the 
question." 

"  It  is  a  pity, "  he  sighed.  "Madame  sees  a  complete 
secretary,"  and  he  drew  out  a  shelf  which  converted 
the  cabinet  into  a  writing-desk  equipped  with  all 
conveniences. 

"Madame  writes?"  he  asked,  "novelettes  perhaps, 
pour  lesjeunesfilles?" 

I  nodded  haughtily.  "Ah!  in  that  case,  c'est  bien 
autre  chose.  Madame  has  my  commiseration.  Would 
eight  hundred  francs  seem  excessive?" 

"It  would,"    I  replied  testily. 

"Eight  hundred  francs!  A  mere  nothing  for  the 
inspiration  which  Madame  will  experience  as  her  fin- 
gers retrace  histories  that  have  been  confided  here  to 
other  beautiful  eyes.  Madame  is  psychic,  I  perceive ; 
let  her  place  between  her  fingers  this  quill  pen.  Does 
not  Madame  feel  a  thrill?  There  are  possibly  letters 
hidden  here,  very  probably  documents  of  value. 
Madame  is  at  liberty  to  make  the  research." 

He  ambled  away  into  an  adjoining  room,  and  tugging 
at  a  refractory  drawer,  I  opened  it  a  fraction  of  an 
inch,  then  it  stuck  fast.  But  there  were  papers  within, 
tied  in  a  packet,  and  across  the  margin  nearest  the 
orifice  was  traced  in  faded  red  ink:  "Histoires  veri- 
tables  et  scandaleuses  de  certaines  personnages  illustres 


"  Margaret  of  Parma,  the  gracious  Regente  " 

From  Romance  of  tin-  Roman  Villas,  by  E.  Champney.      t'>.  V.  Putnam's  Sons 


0 


"3 


w 

c  c 

d 

o  c 

c  O 

3  * 


4^  C 

-   c 
.5.  .2 

5     " 


JU        g 


5  -^ 


Webs  of  Oudenaarde  235 

— publication  inter  diteV  After  that  was  any  price 
exorbitant? 

Thrusting  back  the  drawer  as  the  curio  dealer 
returned,  "I  will  give  you  five  hundred  francs,"  I 
ventured,  taking  out  my  cheque-book. 

"0  Madame,  Madame,"  moaned  the  curio  dealer, 
then,  more  cheerfully,  "Madame  will  pay  for  the  box- 
ing, Men  entendu,  and  the  delivery  to  the  express 
company?" 

"Certainly,"  I  conceded,  "and  the  unfinished 
tapestry,"  I  asked,  with  ill-concealed  eagerness, 
"combien  ga?" 

"Ah!  that,"  replied  the  old  man,  neglecting,  in  his 
delight  at  having  made  a  sale,  the  opportunity  for 
further  profit,  uce  n'est  pas  grande  chose;  but  it  will 
protect  well  the  cabinet  en  voyage,  and  economize  the 
purchase  of  burlap.  Allez  done,  would  Madame 
consider  twenty  francs?" 

Madame  considered — but,  in  her  self-gratulation  for 
having  once  in  her  life  outwitted  a  predatory  dealer, 
she  inadvertently  made  out  her  cheque  for  the  sum, 
which  he  had  at  first  demanded,  failing  to  discover 
her  error  until  too  late. 

Her  purchases  are  at  her  side  at  this  writing:  the 
tapestry  scoffed  at  by  custom's  officials  as  not  worth 
declaration,  the  cabinet  and  its  hoarded  histories 
sneered  at  by  connoisseurs  as  rank  forgeries,  but  each 
suggesting  to  the  deluded  owner: 


236  Old  Belgium 

"Vanished   days  of   ancient   splendour,  and   before   her 
dreaming  eye 
Wave  these  mingled  shapes  and  figures  like  a  faded 
tapestry." 

Her  treasure  of  romance  she  shares  with  you,  dear 
reader,  confident  that 

When  panels  creak,  when  moving  in  their  frames 
The  portraits  seem  of  ancient  knights  and  dames. 
You  also  like  by  night,  with  no  one  near, 
To  read  old  tales  of  marvel  and  of  fear? 
Dragged  from  a  Gothic  cabinet 
Long  years  forgotten,  on  whose  margins  set 
Flowers,  figures,  objects  of  each  gorgeous  hue, 
As  in  a  painted  window  you  may  view. 

I  cannot  leave  them  lyrics,  ballads,  fain 

All  I  devour,  the  clock  strikes  twelve  in  vain. 


Meanwhile  my  candle  gutters  o'er  and  makes 
Long  winding  sheets ;  till  thro  the  lattice  breaks 
The  rosy  tint  of  dawn,  and  the  glad  sun 
Begins  through  heaven  his  glorious  course  to  run. 
Theophile  Gautier,  translated  by  Henry  Carrington,  U.  S. 


CHAPTER  VII 

AN  ABANDONED  TAPESTRY 

(AN  ERRANT  princess)  * 

Sometime  I'll  say  I  am  Duke  Humphrey's  wife, 
And  he  a  prince  and  ruler  of  the  land : 
Yet  so  he  ruled  and  such  a  prince  he  was, 
As  he  stood  by  whilst  I,  his  forlorn  duchess, 
Was  made  a  wonder  and  a  pointing  stock 
To  every  rascal  follower. 
Shakespeare,  Henry  VI.,  part  ii.,  act  ii.,  scene  4. 


A  PAGEANT  OF  FORTUNE 

A  A  /HERE AS  many  have  taken  upon  themselves  to 
*  "  write  lying  chronicles  of  my  worshipful  lady, 
slanderously  accusing  innocent  persons  to  her  over- 
lord, Duke  Philip  of  Burgundy,  as  having  aided  her  in 
her  revolt  against  him,  I  have  determined  to  set  down 
a  true  account  thereof.  More  especially  is  it  meet 
and  fitting  so  to  do,  since  I  alone  was  instigator  of  her 

xThe  author  is  indebted  for  much  of  the  material  relating  to  the 
adventurous  career  of  Jacqueline  to  the  admirable  and  more  veracious 
history,  A  Medieval  Princess,  by  Miss  Ruth  Putnam. 

237 


238  Old  Belgium 

flights  and  rescues,  the  guileless  cause  whereby  she 
was  meshed  in  the  net  of  manifold  misfortune;  and 
also  to  my  joy,  the  means  of  restoring  her  at  last  to  the 
one  faithful  heart  whose  love  was  more  precious  to  her 
than  all  beside.     And  so  to  my  story. 

It  was  upon  her  wedding-day,  in  the  spring  of  the 
year  of  grace  1418  that  I,  John  Robessart,  Sire 
d'Escaillon,  first  took  service  as  captain  of  her  body- 
guard with  my  sovereign  lady,  Jacqueline,  Countess  of 
Holland ,  Zealand ,  and  Hainault .  She  was  scarce  sixteen , 
but  a  virgin- widow ;  for  the  Dauphin  of  France,  to  whom 
she  had  been  contracted  in  her  fifth  year  had,  a  year 
agone,  yielded  his  innocent  soul  to  God.  Thus  the 
little  girl  who  might,  had  her  boy-husband  lived,  have 
become  Queen  of  France,  was  left  unprotected,  with  a 
heritage  which  was  to  make  her  the  prey  of  unscrupu- 
lous and  powerful  men. 

Foremost  amongst  these  was  the  puissant  Philip, 
Duke  of  Burgundy.  It  was  the  ambition  of  this  man 
to  unite  all  Holland  and  Belgium  under  his  own  rule. 
Of  Flanders  he  was  already  lord.  His  nephew  and 
ward  was  Duke  of  Brabant.  The  first  step  in  acquiring 
the  estates  of  the  Countess  Jacqueline  was  to  wed 
her  to  this  nephew  and  thus  assume  the  right  of  her 
guardianship. 

My  lady  had  never  seen  her  proposed  bridegroom, 
but  her  mother  approved  the  match,  and,  to  her  great 
future  misery,  she  became  his  wife. 


An  Abandoned  Tapestry  239 

He  was  by  nature  a  fool  and  still  further  disordered 
in  his  intellectuals  by  drink.  His  mistress  the  Demoi- 
selle Laurette  had  queened  it  in  the  old  palace  of  the 
dukes  of  Brabant  at  Louvain  and  she  continued  to  do 
so  after  the  advent  of  the  young  Duchess.  The  Duke 
laughed  at  the  insults  to  which  she  was  submitted 
and  flouted  her  in  the  presence  of  his  courtiers. 

My  high-spirited  lady  soon  reached  the  term  of  her 
patience  and,  calling  me  to  her  one  morn,  gave  orders 
for  our  departure  to  her  city  of  Mons. 

"And  when,"  I  made  bold  to  ask,  "dost  thou 
purpose  to  return?" 

"Never,  Robessart,"  she  flashed.  "I  can  endure 
this  life  no  longer." 

"But  Monseigneur  of  Brabant  may  compel  thy 
submission.  Were  it  not  better  to  stop  his  mouth 
ere  we  go?" 

"Wouldst  thou  do  him  murder?"  she  gasped. 

"With  good  relish,"  I  assented,  "but  there  may 
be  a  means  less  parlous  for  thee.  I  am  ill  versed  in 
such  villainy;  thou  shouldst  seek  a  doctor." 

"Heart  of  God!"  she  cried.     "Is  it  then  poison?" 

"Nay,  my  lady,  I  spoke  only  of  Judge  Van  Borselen, 
a  learned  Doctor  of  Law.  He  passeth  the  palace  each 
morning  on  his  way  to  the  University.  They  say  there 
is  not  in  all  Europe  a  lawyer  of  greater  acumen  or 
eloquence." 

My  lady  had  already  marked  him,  a  fine  figure  of 


240  Old  Belgium 

a  man,  not  stoop-shouldered  and  emaciated,  as  one  who 
spent  his  days  poring  over  musty  tomes,  but  erect 
and  soldier-like,  his  hooded  robe  fluttering  bravely 
with  his  magisterial  stride,  every  motion  speaking 
adequacy,  resourcefulness,  and  power. 

"Bid  him  counsel  me,"  she  said.  "Nay,  as  the 
Duke's  people  spy  upon  me  here,  I  will  meet  him  in 
the  library." 

Whilst  I  paced  the  great  hall,  that  no  intruding 
scholar  might  play  the  eavesdropper,  in  a  book-walled 
alcove,  looked  down  upon  alone  of  busts  of  Greek 
philosophers,  my  lady  poured  out  her  grief  to  the 
learned  judge. 

"Canst  thou  dissolve  this  unholy  union?"  she 
demanded. 

He  was  grave,  but  sympathy  showed  in  his  benevolent 
eyes. 

"Justice  is  upon  thy  side,"  he  said,  "but  marriage 
fetters  are  ill  to  break.  That  a  man  is  brute  and  villain 
is  not  sufficient  legal  quittance  to  a  wife's  bondage." 

She  wrung  her  hands.  "If  the  oppressed  may  not 
find  justice  in  law,  where  then?" 

"I  said  not  that  a  cause  must  necessarily  be  lost 
because  it  is  righteous,"  he  replied.  "With  subtlety  I 
have  known  even  the  innocent  vindicated.  Gladly 
would  I  undertake  for  thee  were  there  not  reasons  why 
I  cannot.  Nathless  I  will  seek  thee  out  an  advocate 
even  better  than  I." 


An  Abandoned  Tapestry  241 

"None  other  will  I,"  she  cried.  "Why  canst  thou 
not  do  me  this  favour?" 

He  smiled  sadly.  "Thy  most  formidable  foe  in 
this  matter  is  not  thy  husband  but  his  over-lord,  Duke 
Philip  of  Burgundy,  who  holds  thy  estates  in  fee  through 
his  nephew,  and  will  not,  save  under  strong  compulsion, 
suffer  thee  to  free  thyself. 

"Nevertheless  he  might  be  so  compelled,  and  a  battle 
with  a  man  of  his  wits  would  give  me  such  fierce  joy 
as  would  repay  all  the  toil  I  have  given  to  the  law. 
Hadst  thou  asked  me  a  week  agone  I  would  have  given 
myself  heart  and  soul  to  thy  service." 

"And  why  not  now?"  she  demanded. 

"Because,"  he  said  moodily,  "one  may  not  run  with 
the  hare  and  course  also  with  the  hounds.  Yestreen  I 
signed  an  agreement  with  the  Duke  of  Burgundy,  where- 
by I  am  become  his  legal  adviser  and  counsel,  swearing 
to  conduct  for  him  to  the  best  of  my  ability  all  his  ac- 
tions at  law.  He  will  undoubtedly  call  upon  me  to  ar- 
range his  nephew's  defence  against  your  proposed  suit." 

"I  comprehend,"  the  Countess  replied,  "I  can  scarce 
hope  to  retain  as  my  lawyer  one  already  subsidized 
by  the  Duke  of  Burgundy;  but  thy  fee  cannot  be  too 
exorbitant  for  my  present  necessity." 

Van  Borselen  flushed.     "The  consciousness  that  I 
have  made  thee  happy  will  be  the  richest  reward  life 
can  give  me,"  he  said;  "I  will  resign  all  offices  that 
conflict.     My  services  are  thine." 
10 


242  Old  Belgium 

She  paid  no  heed  to  aught  but  his  acceptance. 
"My  friend,  my  one  true  friend,"  she  cried.  "Ask 
what  thou  wilt  it  shall  not  be  denied!" 

He  caught  her  hand,  his  eyes  ablaze.  "Dost  thou 
mean  what  thou  sayest?"  She  drew  back  startled. 
"Nay,"  he  said,  mastering  himself,  "when  all  is  done 
and  thou  art  free — then  will  we  talk  of  guerdon." 

Even  then  my  lady  did  not  understand.  The  differ- 
ence between  their  station  was  too  great  for  her  to 
deem  it  possible  that  he  should  be  so  mad  as  to  love  her. 
Devotion  she  counted  on  as  her  right,  mere  loyalty 
that  could  expect  no  reward. 

I,  being  a  man,  know  a  man's  nature  better.  But 
it  would  do  no  harm,  I  thought,  to  let  this  madness 
grow.  Love  is  a  great  sharpener  of  the  wits  and  oft 
performs  miracles.  He  would  serve  my  lady  the  better 
for  his  love.  As  for  any  good  that  he  would  gain 
thereby — that  was  not  my  affair. 

Thereafter  they  met  often,  the  brief  of  divorce  was 
framed,  copies  nailed  to  church  doors  and  sent  to  the 
Dukes  of  Brabant  and  Burgundy.  More  important 
still  Van  Borselen  made  a  secret  journey  to  the  Pope, 
laying  the  entire  matter  before  his  Holiness  and 
receiving  great  encouragement. 

Meanwhile  the  Countess  had  departed  Brabant  and 
taken  up  her  residence  with  her  mother  at  Quesnoy, 
in  the  county  of  Hainault. 

Hither  Duke  Philip  sent  word  that  he  would  come 


An  Abandoned  Tapestry  243 

to  reconcile  the  differences  betwixt  his  ward  and  his 
unloving  wife.  This  was  what  my  lady  least  desired 
and,  seeing  that  she  was  not  safe  in  her  own  domains, 
she  determined  to  place  herself  under  the  protection 
of  one  more  powerful  than  Burgundy,  even  the  King  of 
England. 

And  thus  it  came  about  that  upon  a  certain  March 
morning  I  had  orders  to  wait  on  my  lady  with  my 
company  of  sixty  horse,  in  a  wood  near  her  manor  of 
Bouchain  to  escort  her  to  Calais  and  thence  to  England. 

In  what  manner  it  began  I  know  not,  but  certain  it  is 
that  she  had  maintained  a  secret  correspondence  with 
the  King's  brother,  Humphrey,  Duke  of  Gloucester. 

Of  this  I  had  ample  evidence  when,  on  our  arrival 
at  Dover,  we  found  the  Duke  patrolling  the  cliffs  with 
a  company  of  horse,  and  leading  by  the  bridle  a  white 
palfrey  royally  caparisoned  in  scarlet  and  gold. 

When  my  lady  saw  the  glint  from  his  armour  she 
clapped  her  hands  and  let  fly  her  veil,  which  signal  was 
answered  by  the  Duke  with  sundry  passes  in  air  with  his 
rapier. 

What  is  ordained  to  be  will  be,  but  woe  is  me  that 
ever  I  brought  my  lady  to  that  false-hearted  man. 
False  he  was  even  then,  enamoured  of  the  witch, 
Eleanor  Cobham,  and  only  seeking  the  Countess 
Jacqueline  out  of  covetousness  of  her  estates  of 
Hainault  and  Holland. 

Van    Borselen    had   written  of  the  Pope's   private 


244  Old  Belgium 

approval,  my  Lady  construed  herself  divorced,  and 
without  waiting  for  public  confirmation  of  the  act  from 
his  Holiness,  wedded  the  Duke  of  Gloucester  with  all 
ceremony  and  good  faith. 

Soon  thereafter  Henry  V.  of  England  died,  leaving 
a  son  but  nine  months  of  age,  for  whom  the  govern- 
ment was  to  be  administered  by  his  uncle,  and  my 
lady's  husband  was  now  Lord  Protector  of  England. 

For  two  years  he  found  no  time  to  visit,  with  his 
wife,  her  countship  of  Hainault.  This  stoppage  in 
England  irked  me  much,  for  I  had  left  at  the  chateau 
of  Quesnoy  my  sweetheart,  Ermengarde,  daughter 
of  the  Master  of  the  Kennels,  a  sweet,  mouth-watering 
plum.  (I  refer  to  the  maid  and  not  to  her  sire,  who  was 
but  a  crab-thorn  tree  to  have  grown  such  fruitage.) 
It  was  a  "joyful  entry"  for  me  when  my  lady  and  the 
Duke  of  Gloucester  came  to  Mons  to  receive  the 
allegiance  of  her  people.  Her  chateau  of  Quesnoy  was 
newly  furbished  up,  the  old  tapestries  mended,  and 
the  great  one  of  the  Tournament  commanded. 

The  occasion  that  prompted  the  choosing  of  such  a 
subject  must  now  be  set  forth. 

It  would  seem  that  if  any  one  was  to  take  exception 
to  my  lady's  marriage  it  should  have  been  her  former 
husband,  the  unworthy  Duke  of  Brabant ;  but  he  dared 
not  open  his  mouth  now  that  the  Duke  of  Gloucester 
was  in  the  country  with  a  large  following  of  English 
bowmen. 


An  Abandoned  Tapestry  245 

But  Philip,  Duke  of  Burgundy,  was  furious  that  a 
female  vassal  should  have  dared  alienate,  to  a  foreign 
prince,  the  estates  which  he  had  marked  for  his  own,  and 
very  shortly  after  our  return  to  Mons  there  arrived  a 
messenger  from  his  lordship.  This  was  the  Duke's 
herald,  a  knight  in  full  armour,  wearing  a  surcoat  of 
white  brocade  embroidered  with  the  arms  of  the  Duke  of 
Burgundy.  He  presented  his  letter  to  the  seneschal 
who  in  turn  gave  it  to  the  Duke  of  Gloucester. 

"  This  letter, "  said  the  latter,  "  seemeth  over-lengthy ; 
we  will  therefore  give  it  perusal  on  a  later  occasion." 

"Pardon,  my  lord,"  replied  the  herald,  "the  sense  of 
this  epistle  may  be  told  in  few  words." 

"Thou  art  permitted  so  to  expound  it,"  replied 
Gloucester. 

"Then,"  said  the  messenger,  "be  notified,  all  who 
hear:  that  my  master,  the  most  puissant  Lord  and 
Prince  Philip,  by  the  grace  of  God,  Duke  of  Bur- 
gundy and  Lotharingia,  of  Limbourg,  Luxembourg, 
and  Gueldres,  Earl  of  Flanders  and  of  Artois,  and 
Marquis  of  the  Holy  Empire,  doth  give  thee,  Humphrey, 
Duke  of  Gloucester,  Lord  Protector  of  England,  to 
know  that  in  espousing,  without  his  lief  and  knowledge, 
the  Lady  Jacqueline,  Countess  of  Holland,  Zealand, 
Friesland  and  Hainault,  wife  of  Jean  Duke  of  Brabant 
his  nephew  and  vassal,  and  in  maintaining  and  fortify- 
ing her  in  her  contumacy  contrary  to  the  laws  of  God 
and  man  as   acknowledged  by  all  Christendom,  she 


246  Old  Belgium 

being  not  lawfully  divorced  from  her  husband,  thou 
hast  exceeded  thy  powers,  and  that  such  marriage  can- 
not stand.  And  moreover  since  thou  hast  fallen  upon 
Hainault  with  an  armed  force,  essaying  to  rob  the  said 
Duke  of  Brabant,  not  only  of  his  wife  but  of  his  heritage 
by  the  stirring  up  of  war,  therefore,  to  avoid  the  spilling 
of  Christian  blood,  my  master  doth  challenge  thee  to 
put  an  end  to  this  quarrel  in  single  combat,  and  to 
decide  the  matter  each  on  the  body  of  the  other,  before 
what  judges  thou  wilt. 

"I  pause  for  thy  reply." 

Humphrey's  sallow  cheek  flushed  but  he  held  himself 
in  check.  "Since  thine  errand,"  he  said,  "is  to  insult 
my  honoured  wife,  and  through  her  to  strike  at  me,  say 
to  thy  master  that  Jacqueline  of  Hainault  and  Holland 
renounces  all  fealty  to  his  dignity  and  that  I,  as  her 
true  knight  and  husband,  declare  him  to  be  an  inju- 
rious slanderer. 

"As  for  the  Brabanter,  if  thy  master  continues  to 
assert  that  he  hath  better  right  than  I  to  my  wife  or  to 
her  estates,  then  am  I  ready  to  stake  my  body  against 
his  on  the  day  of  my  patron  St.  George;  and,  as  my 
dear  brother  of  Bedford  is  near  at  hand,  I  am  content 
to  submit  the  issue  of  the  combat  to  him  as  arbitrator 
of  the  duel.  And  in  evidence  of  this  challenge  there 
lies  my  gage." 

Tearing  off  his  gauntlet  with  this  declaration,  the 
Duke  of  Gloucester  flung  it  at  the  feet  of  the  herald. 


An  Abandoned  Tapestry  247 

Then  turning  contemptuously  on  his  heel  he  gave  his 
arm  to  the  Countess  Jacqueline,  saying  more  quietly : 
"We  have  wasted  too  much  time  with  this  fellow. 
My  lords  and  ladies,  our  supper  cooleth.  Let  us  to  the 
banquet  hall." 

These  were  stout  words,  for  Humphrey  of  Gloucester 
had  but  a  short  temper,  and  was  moreover  studious  of 
theatrical  effect.  But,  though  my  lady,  delirious  with 
joy,  called  him  her  "dear  champion,"  methought  his 
smile  was  but  a  sickly  one  and  he  ate  with  little  appetite. 

It  chanced  that  the  mended  tapestries  of  which  I 
have  spoken  were  but  newly  arrived  from  Oudenaarde, 
and  my  lady  posted  me  off  on  the  morrow  to  pay  for 
them  and  to  order  the  fabrication  of  another,  and  that 
in  all  haste.  It  should  figure  forth  the  joust  to  be 
fought  between  Philip  of  Burgundy  and  the  Duke  of 
Gloucester,  for  the  Duchess  had  no  doubt  but  that  her 
lord  would  come  off  victor.  Little  thought  had  we 
that  the  duel  would  never  take  place;  nor  Philip 
neither,  for  he  accepted  the  challenge  incontinent, 
and  set  the  artificers  of  Hesdin  to  fashion  for  him  a 
magnificent  suit  of  armour. 

But  the  Duke  of  Gloucester  so  manoeuvred  matters 
that  he  was  called  to  London  on  affairs  of  government, 
Philip  consenting  to  a  postponement  of  the  tourney  to 
a  more  convenient  season.  The  estates  of  Hainault 
insisted  their  countess  should  remain  in  Mons,  and  it 
was  with  a  heavy  heart  that  she  saw  her  lord  depart. 


248  Old  Belgium 

What  irked  her  most  was  that  one  of  her  English 
ladies-in-waiting,  Mistress  Eleanor  Cobham  by  name, 
returned  with  him. 

It  was  plain  to  us  all  even  then  that  she  had  snared  the 
affections  of  the  Duke  and  that  she  had  no  love  for  my 
lady,  though  she  gave  her  in  parting  a  fair  silver 
pomander  with  her  device  on  the  lid.  My  lady  could 
not  abide  it,  and  flung  it  in  pique  to  her  half-sister 
Beatrix  when  her  false  friend  had  departed. 

Gloomy  as  were  the  forebodings  of  the  Countess 
Jacqueline  she  could  not  then  have  foreseen  that  this 
was  her  final  parting  from  her  husband,  or  that  Philip 
would  dare  to  send  a  troop  of  five  hundred  horse  and 
bear  her  a  prisoner  from  her  city  of  Mons  to  the  castle 
of  the  Counts  of  Flanders  at  Ghent. 

So  sudden  was  the  coup  that  her  people  had  no 
opportunity  to  resist,  and  though  I  gathered  my  com- 
pany together  and  waylaid  the  convoy  at  the  windmill 
of  Arth,  it  was  a  vain  attempt,  for  what  were  sixty  light 
horsemen  against  five  hundred  Burgundian  lanz- 
knechts? 

The  attack  was  made  at  night  else  the  Burgundians 
would  have  seen  how  overwhelmingly  they  outnumbered 
us  and  would  have  annihilated  us  to  a  man.  As  it 
was  we  drew  off,  leaving  half  of  our  company  on  the 
field,  and  many  of  those  who  fled  were  wounded.  The 
lanzknechts  meanwhile  bore  away  to  captivity  my 
beloved  lady  and  my  still  more  beloved  Ermengarde, 


An  Abandoned  Tapestry  249 

who  had  been  promoted  to  be  her  favourite  maid,  and 
whom  I  had  had  hopes  of  making  Mistress  John  Robes- 
sart  on  Michaelmas  following. 

11 

A  DISPOSSESSED  COUNTESS:  JACQUELINE  LA   DESIREE 


In  merye  Mons,  a  citie  of  Hainault, 

Whilom  ther  dwelt  a  ladye  passing  fayre, 

Beloued  by  alle  folk  both  heighe  and  lowe. 

Noble  she  was,  discret  and  debonaire, 

Gentil  withal  and  swete  of  contenaunce. 

Her  seemed  a  nursling  of  the  wylde  plesaunce, 

Whenne  through  the  wolde  she  rode  her  palfrey  roan, 

Seekynge  disport  and  blythe  distracioun, 

With  her  whyte  houndes,  Countess  Jacqueline. 

Wei  loued  she  too  the  joyance  of  the  toun. 

Wherfor  I  seye  she  is  my  sovraine  quene ! 


11 


Penelope,  Thais,  and  Greek  Helaine, 
Calpurnia,  Faustine,  the  Romaune  fayre, 
Clotilde  and  Hildegarde,  blythe  chastelaine, 
Matilde  and  Eleanore,  alle  jewelles  rare, 
Agnes  Sorel  and  Joanne  of  sunny  Fraunce, 
Grete  sovraines  alle  and  quenes  of  heighe  romauncc. 
But  non  of  these  wolde  I  mak  mencioun, 
Worthye  with  thee  to  weare  the  thornye  crowne. 
That  thou  dost  meeklye  beare,  my  Jacqueline. 
Though  Gloucester's  duchesse  thou,  he  is  a  clown 
Wherfor  I  seye  thou  art  my  sovraine  quene! 


250  Old  Belgium 

in 

"Dame  Jacque  la  D6sir6e,"  tis  written  so, 

Duke  Philip  dubbed  thee,  whenne  he  spreade  his  snare, 

Ladye  the  much  desired,  by  friende  or  foe. 

But  who  thy  hate  doth  knowe  hadde  best  bewarre! 

For,  in  despyte  thy  lovesome  apparaunce, 

Thou  hast  a  herte  that  harboureth  mischaunce, 

To  wreke  onne  him  such  castagacioun 

And  meed  of  woe  as  he  hath  never  knowne. 

Better  to  parley  wyth  Dame  Jacqueline 

Thanne  seeke  herre  undesyred  confusioun. 

Wherfor  I  seye  she  is  my  sovraine  quene! 

IV 

Van  Eyck,  the  painter,  whom  alle  menne  do  knowe, 

Did  limn  a  tableau,  bryghte  and  wondrous  fayre, 

Wherein  are  pictured,  inne  a  shyning  row, 

The  hevenlye  hostes  and  eke  the  earthlye  there 

Kneeling,  amydst  a  flowery  plesaunce, 

Befor  a  litel  lamb,  in  obeisaunce; 

So  at  thy  shrine,  in  adoracioun, 

Thus  wolde  I  kneel  fore  thee,  thy  champioun, 

Ever  in  ravissement,  Sainte  Jacqueline, 

My  soule  shal  worship  thee  and  thee  alone 

Wherfor  I  seye  thou  art  my  sovraine  quene! 


Thine  eyen  placide  are,  yet  bryghtlye  glow, 
Thy  mouth,  a  pettaled  rose  and  golde  thy  haire, 
Thy  voice,  a  winde  of  musick  soft  and  lowe, 
Lighte  as  the  loitering  breeze  in  pine  trees  bare. 
With  swete  allurements  blent,  thy  coutenaunce 
Bespeketh  parfait  blis  and  heighe  romaunce. 


An  Abandoned  Tapestry  251 

0  priestesse  sanct,  grant  now  thy  champioun, 
In  his  sore  neede,  thine  absolucioun 
And  raise  thy  holye  handes,  Sainte  Jacqueline, 
On  my  bowed  heade  inne  benedictioun; 
Wherfor  I  seye  thou  art  my  sovraine  quene! 

ENVOY 

Princesse,  thou  art,  in  fayre  or  foul  sesoun, 

Ever  a  floure,  I  but  a  lichened  ston, 

Thenne  yield  thy  livyng  bloome,  fayre  Jacqueline, 

To  my  graye  life,  ere  its  conclusioun. 

Wherfor  I  seye  thou  art  my  sovraine  quene! 

Thus  sang  Van  Borselen  his  chant  royal  in  praise 
of  my  lady.  Judge  ye  who  read  whether  he  had 
reason  for  his  singing. 

That  which  I  have  heretofore  chronicled  is  but 
history,  known,  in  some  fashion,  to  all;  but  the  matters 
I  am  about  to  relate — namely  the  escape  of  my  lady 
from  implication  in  her  uncle's  murder,  and  the  manner 
of  her  evasion  from  her  imprisonment  in  the  Graven- 
steen1  of  Ghent — have  been,  until  now,  secrets  locked 
in  the  hearts  of  but  two  or  three  chosen  confidants. 

And,  firstly,  of  the  murder. 

There  was  one  powerful  noble,  who  was  my  lady's 
natural  protector,  to  whom  it  would  seem  that  she 
might  have  appealed  in  her  troubles.  This  was  her 
father's  brother,  John,  Bishop  of  Liege  and  Duke  of 
Bavaria.     But  her  very  reverend  uncle  was  known 

1  Castle  of  the  Counts  of  Flanders.    Flemish,  Gravensteen. 


252  Old  Belgium 

in  Li6ge  as  "John  the  Pitiless,  a  tiger  rather  than  a 
man."  Though  lord  of  vast  states  he  had  coveted  those 
of  his  niece  and  had  disputed  vainly  her  succession 
to  her  father's,  holding  that  Holland  and  Hainault 
were  male  fiefs  of  which  he  was  the  true  heir. 

Latterly  he  had  been  the  parasite  and  tool  of  the 
Duke  of  Burgundy,  who  knew  how  to  flatter  those 
whom  he  intended  to  despoil. 

But  the  Countess  Jacqueline  was  thought  to  be  the 
Bishop's  heiress  and  when  it  fell  out  that  his  reverence 
was  poisoned  by  one  Jan  Van  Vliet,  the  husband  of  my 
lady's  half-sister  Beatrix  (though  the  murderer  had 
his  own  reasons  for  hating  the  reverend  father  in  Christ), 
there  lacked  not  those  who  thought  the  deed  instigated 
by  my  lady,  that  she  might  possess  an  estate  the  more 
and  an  enemy  the  less.  The  murderer  (who  was  tried 
at  The  Hague  before  Lord  Frank  Van  Borselen,  whose 
destiny  was  so  strangely  interwoven  with  that  of  the 
Countess)  made  full  confession  of  his  crime  and  was 
duly  executed  therefor.  He  made  no  mention  of  my 
lady  in  his  examination,  and  when  it  was  discovered 
that  the  murdered  man  had  named  Philip  of  Burgundy 
as  his  heir,  the  Countess  profiting  naught  by  her 
uncle's  death,  suspicion  as  to  her  complicity  therein 
died. 

The  Judge  was  supposed  to  be  a  creature  of  the 
Duke  of  Burgundy,  and  it  was  believed  that  had  it  been 
possible  to  implicate  the  Countess  Jacqueline  he  would 


An  Abandoned  Tapestry  253 

have  done  so,  as  nothing  would  better  have  pleased 
his  patron. 

This  I  could  not  believe,  for  though  van  Borselen  had 
received  no  thanks  from  my  lady  for  the  pains  he  had 
taken  for  her  sake,  which  had  indeed  only  served  to 
throw  her  into  Gloucester's  arms,  and  though  deeply 
wounded  in  heart  and  pride  he  had  later  accepted 
office  under  Philip,  I  knew  that  no  disappointment  or 
pique  could  change  an  honourable  man  into  a  villain. 

Of  this  I  had  astonishing  proof  at  the  time  of  the 
trial,  when  with  subtlety  greater  than  the  Duke's  he 
shielded  my  lady  from  a  shameful  death,  foiling  the 
many  satanic  attempts  made  to  entrap  her.  Point 
after  point  I  noted,  for  I  had  attended  the  trial  in 
disguise  in  order  that  I  might  know  the  machinations 
which  were  being  hatched  against  my  mistress. 

Van  Vliet  had  confessed  that  a  poisoned  pomade  had 
been  sent  him  from  England,  enclosed  in  a  small  silver 
casket,  that  he  had  possessed  himself  of  the  Bishop's 
missal  and  had  pasted  certain  of  the  pages  together 
with  the  pomade,  first  taking  the  precaution  to  cover 
his  hand  with  a  glove,  which  he  had  burned.  The 
casket  he  had  thrown  into  a  tomb  in  the  crypt  of  the 
Cathedral  of  Liege. 

I  saw  at  once  that  if  this  casket  could  be  found  it 
might  be  a  clue  to  van  Vliet's  accomplices,  and  I  set 
forth  that  night  for  Liege.  Stabling  horse  at  the  inn 
I  hastened  to  the  cathedral.     The  entrance  to  the  crypt 


254  Old  Belgium 

was  closed  by  an  iron  grille,  but  thrusting  my  shoulder 
against  it,  the  rusted  hinges  gave  way.  Within,  a  half- 
light  showed  me  but  three  tombs  covered  by  heavy 
marble  slabs.  How  could  van  Vliet  have  made  shift 
to  remove  one  of  these?  His  story  was  a  lie,  and  he  had 
hidden  the  casket  elsewhere.  Then,  as  I  peered  at  the 
tombs  in  my  perplexity,  I  noticed  a  crack  running 
down  the  side  of  one,  and  at  the  corner  a  small  fragment 
of  marble  had  been  removed  and  replaced.  Prying  it 
aside  I  discovered  the  end  of  a  silver  chain  and  drawing 
it  from  the  tomb  there  fell  into  my  hand  the  silver 
pomander,  which  I  had  seen  my  lady  give  her  sister. 

While  I  stared  at  her  device,  the  two  red  and  two 
black  lions  enamelled  in  fair  colours  upon  the  lid,1 
and  thought  with  horror  of  the  damning  testimony 
which  this  instrument  of  Satan  might  have  given 
against  her,  I  was  startled  by  the  creak  of  the  grille 
and  a  quick  step  behind  me. 

Thrusting  the  pomander  into  my  bosom,  I  turned 
to  face  the  man  I  most  dreaded,  Judge  Frank  van 
Borselen. 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed,  "we  both  would  secure  the 
silver  casket  of  which  the  murderer  testified  yestreen. 
Thou  hast  forestalled  me,  but  'twill  avail  thee  naught 
to  draw  thy  sword.  My  men  wait  above.  If  the 
casket,  of  which  thou  hast  possession,  would  seem  to 

1  "Quarterly:  i  and  2  or,  a  lion  rampant  sable,  2  and  3  or,  a  lion 
rampant  gules." 


An  Abandoned  Tapestry  255 

implicate  an  accessory  in  this  horrible  crime,  I  have  no 
desire  to  bring  it  into  court.  The  man  has  sworn  on 
his  hope  of  Christ's  pardon  that  he  had  no  confederate. 
'Tis  enough  that  he  should  suffer.  One  possibly 
innocent  should  not  be  wrongfully  accused. 

"Keep  thy  find.  I  came  but  to  place  it  out  of  reach 
of  those  who  might  use  it  as  an  engine  of  mischief." 

Finding  no  words  I  bowed  low. 

"Wait  here, "  he  commanded,  "until  I  have  departed. 
If  the  casket  is  demanded  by  the  prosecution,  I  shall 
truthfully  bear  witness  that,  searching  the  crypt,  I 
found  naught." 

All  this  matter  of  murder  and  trial,  with  my  adven- 
ture in  the  crypt,  had  chanced  before  Countess  Jacque- 
line was  taken  in  custody  to  Ghent,  by  order  of  the 
Duke  of  Burgundy.  Not  until  her  imprisonment  did 
I  suspect  that  the  plan  to  implicate  my  lady  was  his 
scurvy  work. 

Van  Borselen  had  foiled  the  pomander  plot ;  but  now 
was  I  at  wits'  end  to  provide  means  of  communication 
with  my  Ermengarde.  She  was  incarcerated  with  my 
lady  in  the  Gravensteen,  and  neither  were  permitted 
to  set  foot  outside  the  gloomy  state  apartments,  where 
they  were  served  by  soldiers  in  guise  of  lackeys.  They 
were  allowed  to  receive  no  visitors,  and  their  letters 
were  intercepted  and  sent  to  the  Duke.  The  heavily- 
barred  windows  of  their  gaol  frowned  down  upon 
turbid  waters  of  a  loathly  moat  which  cinctured  the 


256  Old  Belgium 

castle  on  every  side.  Within  tattered  tapestries  were 
greening  with  mould  to  the  mottled  tones  of  ripe  goat's- 
milk  cheese,  and  everywhere  was  the  odour  of  decay. 

I  strove  to  make  friends  of  the  guard,  bringing  my 
lute  like  another  Blondel  and  strumming  excellent 
good  songs  of  my  own  composing,  but  my  gift  of 
minstrelsy  got  me  no  farther  than  the  portcullis. 
Scurvily  incorruptible  I  found  them  and  so  unapprecia- 
tive  of  the  lure  of  the  tavern  that  none  of  them  would 
accept  my  offer  to  stand  sentry  in  his  stead  while  he 
refreshed  himself  with  a  stoup  of  ale.  Disgustingly 
intelligent  and  disobliging  these  minions,  for  they  had 
a  flair  for  all  my  tricks,  and  though  I  attempted  to 
send  Ermengarde  a  message  concealed  in  the  lining  of 
a  coif,  the  rogues  failed  to  convey  it,  though  they  kept 
my  bribe. 

In  prowling  about  the  wall  I  discovered  a  postern 
door  through  which,  morn  and  eve,  a  comely,  scholar- 
like man  came  and  went.  Upon  our  second  meeting 
I  made  bold  to  ask  if  he  were  of  the  castle-guard.  This 
he  denied,  letting  me  to  know  that  he  was  an  illustrious 
painter,  one  Messire  Jan  van  Eyck,  commissioned 
with  an  Adoration  of  the  Lamb  which  his  brother  had 
begun  for  the  Cathedral  of  St.  Bavon.  As  the  canvas 
was  of  ungainly  dimensions  he  had  been  accorded 
permission  to  use  the  Gravensteen  council-chamber  as 
his  studio. 

"Thy  name,  sir,  is  not  unknown  to  me,"  I  said, 


s  ° 


C    -d 


»     SO 

■e  >  a 


t»o 


«i  s 


An  Abandoned  Tapestry  257 

"and  I  would  fain  enjoy  sight  of  this  lambkin  of  thy 
colourful  brush." 

He  eyed  me  quizzically.  "I  have  need  of  models," 
he  said.  "Hast  thou  leisure  to  posture  for  me?  I 
will  pay  two  copper  clinquars  the  day  for  thy  pains." 

"And  what  may  this  posturing  be?"  I  interrogated. 

"Naught,"  replied  van  Eyck,  "but  to  sit  stock-still 
and  suffer  me  to  limn  thy  visage." 

"Such  labour  liketh  me  well,"  I  grinned,  and  the 
painter  resumed  boastfully : 

"I  dream  a  wondrous  vision  of  Paradise,  a  glorious 
assemblage  of  archangels,  blessed  saints,  holy  martyrs, 
virgins,  popes,  and  emperors." 

I  was  flattered  to  have  found  such  favour  in  his 
eyes  that  he  thought  my  lineaments  worthy  of  these 
worshipful  personages,  but  my  vanity  was  to  have  a 
rude  tumble.  "In  what  guise  wilt  thou  depict  me, 
as  St.  George  or  Charlemagne,  since  I  possess  not  the 
requisite  garb?" 

"Have  no  fear  as  to  that,"  he  said  reassuringly.  " 'Tis 
not  in  Paradise  I  would  bestow  thee  but  in  another 
picture.  I  will  strip  thee  to  the  buff  and  figure  thee 
as  one  of  the  damned  in  Hell,  tormented  by  devils 
with  red-hot  pincers." 

"That  likes  me  not,  fair  sir,"  I  made  answer, 
"surely  thou  dost  but  jest." 

"Y  faith  not,"  he  returned.     "The  pincers  are  but 

cold  iron  painted  red,  and  the  devils  shall  torture  full 
17 


25$  Old  Belgium 

gently."  Then  giving  me  his  key  he  bade  me  mount  to 
the  council-chamber  after  the  midday  meal. 

I  agreed  to  these  humiliating  conditions  in  order  to 
gain  entrance  to  the  Gravensteen  and  returned  to  my 
hostelry.  Here  I  fell  in  with  two  Dutchmen,  pretended 
pottery  pedlars,  leading  pack-horses  laden  with  crates, 
piled  with  the  ware  of  Delft.  I  noted  the  horses  were 
too  good  for  such  service;  and  scrutinizing  the  mer- 
chants recognized  one  as  the  Seigneur  of  Gorcum,  a 
staunch  friend  of  the  Countess. 

We  speedily  put  our  heads  together  and  came  to  an 
understanding.  He  brought  tidings  that  Humphrey 
of  Gloucester  had  despatched  a  contingent  of  three 
thousand  archers  to  defend  my  lady  against  Duke 
Philip  of  Burgundy. 

Gorcum  had  provided  for  every  stage  of  the  journey 
to  Holland,  save  only  the  first.  For  the  trivial  achieve- 
ment of  conveying  the  Countess  without  the  city  walls 
he  trusted  wholly  to  me. 

As  we  were  plotting  together,  cudgelling  our  brains 
under  the  sense  of  necessity  for  speedy  action,  there 
clattered  through  the  sleepy,  noontide  streets  a 
squadron  of  Burgundian  lance. 

Sending  his  command  to  their  barracks,  the  cap- 
tain swaggered  into  the  tavern  and  called  loudly  for 
dejeuner. 

My  comrades  slipped  away  unperceived,  but  I  en- 
gaged the  stranger  in  conversation.     I  offered  to  regale 


An  Abandoned  Tapestry  259 

him  with  the  wine  of  his  country,  which  the  landlord 
had  long  in  cellar.  After  the  second  bottle  I  learned  to 
my  dismay  that  he  had  escorted  the  Duke  of  Burgundy 
to  Ghent,  and  that  it  was  the  purpose  of  his  master  to 
take  the  Countess  Jacqueline  with  him  on  his  return  to 
Dijon. 

To  my  inquiry  as  to  the  extent  of  his  purposed  stay 
in  the  city,  he  replied  that  his  instructions  were  to 
count  upon  but  a  day's  breathing  space. 

Once  on  their  way  there  would  be  no  possibility  of 
rescue,  for  the  remnant  of  my  little  band  had  scattered 
to  their  homes.  I  must  act  quickly.  Having  once 
gained  access  to  the  castle,  by  means  of  Messire  van 
Eyck's  key,  my  intention  was  to  utterly  disregard  my 
appointment  with  him  and  to  find  my  way  by  some 
means  to  the  apartment  of  the  Countess.  What  was 
my  displeasure,  therefore,  on  mounting  the  postern 
stairway  to  find  myself  immediately  within  his 
studio. 

He  was  so  occupied  with  painting  that  he  noted  not 
my  ill  humour.  "Thou  art  tardy,  damned  One,"  he 
cried.  "Get  thee  behind  yonder  arras  and  disrobe 
thyself  for  torture." 

I  obeyed  and  was  presently  postured  by  the  artist. 
There  were  no  attendant  devils  nor  pincers,  and,  albeit 
it  irked  me  to  constantly  maintain  one  position,  the 
task  was  not  difficult.  It  was  beginning  to  grow  weari- 
some, however,  when  there  came  a  lively  knocking  at 


260  Old  Belgium 

the  postern  below  stairs,  and  the  painter,  grumbling 
at  the  interruption,  sullenly  descended. 

At  once  I  set  about  to  explore  a  doorway  which 
appeared  to  lead  into  the  interior  of  the  castle,  when, 
to  my  confusion,  it  was  suddenly  opened  from  the 
other  side  and  I  found  myself  face  to  face  with  my 
beloved  Ermengarde. 

The  recognition  was  not  at  first  mutual,  for  she 
was  not  wont  to  see  me  in  the  lack  of  apparel  in 
which  I  now  presented  myself.  Shrieking  with  fright 
she  fled  precipitately  down  the  long  corridor,  while  I, 
catching  up  the  first  rag  (which  chanced  to  be  a 
dalmatic  that  the  model  who  posed  as  the  Pope  had 
been  wearing),  charged  frantically  after  her. 

"Ermengarde,  dearest  lady,"  I  cried,  "stop,  for 
the  love  of  Heaven,  'tis  I,  thy  Robessart." 

With  that  she  glanced  over  her  shoulder,  and,  seeing 
me  more  decently  accoutred,  desisted  in  her  flight.  I 
tugged  at  the  dalmatic,  to  hide  my  legs,  but  it  played 
me  false  as  to  my  chest.  Moreover  it  was  slit  on  both 
sides,  so  that  Ermengarde  forgot  her  fear  in  mirth  at 
my  discomfiture. 

"Cease  thy  unseemly  laughter,"  I  cried,  shaking  her 
in  my  wrath,  "if  thou  hast  any  wit  in  thy  foolish 
poll." 

Having  reduced  her  to  reason  I  told  her  why  I  ap- 
peared in  such  strange  garb,  and  how  I  would  be  at  the 
postern  that  night  to  conduct  my  lady  and  herself 


An  Abandoned  Tapestry  261 

beyond  the  gates  where  they  would  mount  pack-horses 
and  so  to  freedom. 

"Gladly  will  we  fly  with  thee,"  she  made  answer, 
"if  thou  wilt  provide  thyself  with  Christian  clothing." 

"Have  no  fear,"  I  replied,  "but  canst  thou  gain  en- 
trance into  the  council-chamber?" 

"Certes, "  Ermengarde  rejoined  confidently.  "My 
lady  is  sitting  for  her  portrait  to  Messire  van  Eyck. 
The  guards  have  orders  to  admit  her  when  e'er  she 
wills.  Nay,  nay,  thou  shalt  not  kiss  me  until  thou 
art  garbed  in  more  seemly  fashion.  Into  thy  hell  of 
paint-pots,  thou  damned  soul." 

Hearing  steps  at  the  turn  of  the  corridor  I  was  forced 
for  very  shame  to  obey  her.  As  I  slunk  to  the  sheltering 
arras,  Jan  van  Eyck  threw  me  a  quick,  questioning 
look,  but  he  was  so  occupied  with  two  guests  who 
accompanied  him  that  he  spake  not. 

Scrutinizing  them  through  a  rent  in  the  arras  I  was 
astonished  beyond  measure  to  recognize  one  as  the 
worshipful  Judge  Francis  van  Borselen,  and  the  other 
thin-shanked  and  richly  dressed,  with  straight  lips, 
hawk-like  nose,  and  piercing  eyes,  masked  by  slanting 
lids,  as  the  puissant  Duke  of  Burgundy,  Philip  the  Bad, 
falsely  yclept  the  Good. 

Drawing  aside  the  curtain  which  hid  it,  van  Eyck 
disclosed  his  great  picture,  the  Adoration  of  the  Lamb. 

Duke  Philip  stood  as  one  spell-bound,  declaring  the 
painting  a  miracle  of  art.     To  me   it  seemed  but  a 


262  Old  Belgium 

motley  multitude,  on  their  knees  before  a  woolly  bit  of 
mutton,  but  van  Borselen,  of  a  more  spiritual  nature, 
comprehended  its  mystical  significance  and  overwhelmed 
the  artist  with  praise. 

"Sir  van  Eyck,"  spake  the  Duke,  "I  came  to 
commission  thee  to  paint  for  me  a  portrait." 

The  artist  bowed,  murmuring  appreciatively. 

"Hark  thee,"  continued  Philip,  "perchance  this 
may  not  pleasure  thee  so  well.  Thou  must  depart 
Flanders  on  the  instant,  and  voyage,  with  my  embassage 
to  the  King  of  Portugal.  His  daughter,  the  Infanta 
Isabella,  hath  been  proffered  me  in  marriage.  Her 
rank  is  royal,  but  I  mistrust  she  may  be  sour-visaged. 
My  late  spouse,  the  Lady  Bonne  of  Artois,  was  a  comely 
damsel,  but  Michele,  though  a  princess  of  France  was 
most  ill-favoured.  I  desire  that  my  future  duchess  shall 
be  beauteous.  I  therefore  pray  thee,  van  Eyck,  to 
submit  me  her  likeness  ere  I  contract  myself." 

"My  lord,"  replied  the  painter,  "the  beauty  of  thy 
betrothed  shall  suffer  no  derogation  at  my  brush." 

"I  fear  rather  the  contrary,"  retorted  the  Duke, 
"and  would  regard  the  portrait  thou  hast  limned  of  the 
Countess  Jacqueline,  that  I  may  judge  whether  thy 
pencil  be  flattering  as  van  Borselen's  tongue." 

As  van  Eyck  produced  the  portrait  the  Duke  burst 
into  uncontrolled  laughter.  "So  this  is  thy  peerless 
beauty!"  he  sneered. 

"Nay,  my  lord,"  protested  van   Borselen,  "I    do 


An  Abandoned  Tapestry  263 

assert  that  van  Eyck  hath  maligned  the  noble  lady 
most  vilely." 

"We  shall  see  forthwith,"  chuckled  the  Duke. 
"Prithee  go  to  her,  Messire  Painter,  and  say  that 
Philipee  of  Burgundy  craveth  audience  with  his  fair 
cousin.  And,  if  I  find  that  thy  brush  doth  natter  in 
lady's  favour,  no  commission  shalt  thou  have  to 
Portugal  from  me." 

There  was  silence  in  the  studio  for  a  moment,  but 
I  had  reason  in  not  venturing  forth.  Presently  the 
Duke  resumed.  "Friend  Borselen,  now  that  we  are 
alone,  there  is  a  question  I  fain  would  ask  of  thee. 
How  is  that  thou  didst  not  find  in  the  tomb  of  St. 
Hubert  a  lady's  pomander  bearing  the  device  of 
Hainault?" 

"  Sang  de  Dieu!"  exclaimed  the  other.  "Van  Vliet 
particularized  it  not  so,  deposing  only  that  he  hid 
therein  a  silver  casket.  Even  thus  far  I  deem  he  lied, 
for  the  tomb  was  empty  of  aught  save  the  relics  of  the 
saint." 

"Then,  my  friend,  some  agent  of  the  Countess 
purloined  the  evidence  of  her  complicity." 

"How  knowest  thou,  my  lord,  there  was  such 
evidence?" 

The  Duke  laughed.  "In  this  fashion.  The  wife  of 
van  Vliet  begged  his  life  at  my  hands.  '  If  thou  canst 
prove,'  I  promised  her,  'that  another  incited  thy  hus- 
band to  this  murder  then  shall  he  go  free.'    Thereat 


264  Old  Belgium 

the  woman  declared  that  the  poison  had  been  secreted 
in  a  pomander  given  to  the  Countess  Jacqueline  by  one 
who  would  have  compassed  her  death  therewith,  and 
that  this  coffret  bore  her  sister's  device.  What  better 
evidence  that  she  had  devised  this  murder?  The 
pomander  thou  shouldst  have  found." 

"I  have  sworn  there  was  naught  in  the  tomb.  Most 
like  she  planned  to  place  it  there  to  save  her  husband, " 
mused  van  Borselen." 

"Say  rather  that  so  I  inconsiderately  planned," 
continued  the  Duke.  "The  death  of  the  Lady  Jacque- 
line would  have  spared  me  much  inconvenience.  But, 
since  she  is  innocent  of  that  crime,  I  rejoice  that  her 
removal  was  not  compassed  thus  prematurely.  Ad- 
visedly I  use  the  word,  for  it  is  not  my  wont  to  cast 
away  an  orange  till  I  have  sucked  dry  its  sweetness. 
Now  mark  thee,  van  Borselen,  and  thou  shalt  know 
why  I  have  asked  thee  to  share  this  interview.  I  have 
persuaded  the  Pope  to  declare  that  the  Countess 
Jacqueline  was  never  by  Holy  Church  divorced  from 
Brabant;  therefore  her  marriage  with  Gloucester  is 
null  and  void.  His  Holiness  hath  envoyed  me  this 
notification,  and  since  she  could  scarcely  regard  with 
favour  the  bearer  of  such  tidings,  it  is  my  desire  that 
thou  shouldst  present  the  missive  in  my  stead." 

"Gramercy  for  thy  courtesy,"  replied  van  Borselen 
with  irony. 

"Nay,  pull  not  such  a  wry  countenance,"  laughed 


An  Abandoned  Tapestry  265 

Philip.  "I  will  protect  thee  from  her  spleen.  More- 
over, as  a  man-of-law,  thou  art  of  less  account  in  her 
eyes  than  the  parchment  on  which  thy  pen-craft  is 
engrossed." 

Van  Borselen  nodded  assent,  but  nathless  protested. 
"Since  the  Duke  of  Brabant  hath  departed  this  earth 
the  Countess  hath  no  further  need  of  divorce,  for  she  is 
now  widowed  by  act  of  God." 

"Who,  I  trust,  will  endow  her  with  a  more  fitting 
mate,"  ejaculated  Philip. 

"Whom  hast  thou  in  mind?"  questioned  the  Justice. 

11  Par  dieu!  my  very  self!  With  this  intent  have  I 
voyaged  hither.  Her  estates  of  Holland,  Zealand,  and 
Hainault  like  me  well,  and  will  suffice  the  baggage 
as  dowry." 

"But  the  Infanta  Isabella?"  questioned  van 
Borselen. 

"My  friend,  'tis  a  long  mile  to  Portugal,  and  much 
may  transpire  during  the  journey  of  my  embassy. 
Likewise  it  booteth  naught  whether  the  Infanta  Isabella 
be  my  third  duchess  or  my  fourth.  Jacqueline  hath 
much  lived  in  little  space,  mayhap  she  draweth  near 
to  her  end." 

My  flesh  crept  with  horror  at  the  cold-bloodedness  of 
this  villain.  I  could  scarce  prevent  myself  from  rushing 
upon  him,  but  at  that  moment  van  Eyck  entered. 

"What  reply  doth  the  Countess  send  to  my  request 
for  audience?"  asked  the  Duke. 


266  Old  Belgium 

"One  scarce  courteous,  my  lord,"  replied  van  Eyck. 
"'The  Duchess  of  Gloucester,'  so  she  insisted  I 
should  particularize  her,  will  not  receive  the  Duke  of 
Burgundy." 

"Can  not,  man,  thou  repeatest  thy  lesson  ill." 

"Verbatim,  my  lord,  though  with  less  of  emphasis. 
She  will,  however,  gladly  grant  an  interview  to  the 
worshipful  Judge  van  Borselen." 

"Forward,  friend,"  cried  Philip  gaily.  "Storm  the 
redoubt  for  me;  I  commit  the  siege  to  thy  general- 
ship." 

The  Duke  then  departed,  but  I  tarried  still  in  dur- 
ance, expectant  that  van  Borselen  would  wait  upon  my 
lady  in  her  apartment;  but,  as  he  was  about  to  leave 
the  studio,  the  Countess  Jacqueline  entered. 

"My  friend,"  she  exclaimed,  "bringest  thou  tidings 
from  the  Pope?  Hath  he  publicly  approved  my 
divorce?    Tell  me,  have  I  my  release  at  last?" 

His  voice  was  very  grave.  "One  higher  than  the 
Pope  hath  freed  thee;  Brabant  no  longer  liveth." 

She  was  silent  for  a  space.  "I  can  not  feign  sorrow, " 
she  said,  "for  now  my  marriage  with  Gloucester  is  clear 
before  all  the  world." 

"Nay,"  replied  the  Judge,  "thou  art  released  from 
him  also,"  and  patiently  he  explained  the  papal 
decision. 

"'Tis  infamy,"  she  raved.  "Dare  he,  or  any  man, 
say  I  am  not  Duke  Humphrey's  wife?" 


An  Abandoned  Tapestry  267 

"My  lady,  as  I  read  here,  the  Duke  hath  accepted 
annulment  of  his  vows.  I  received  this  morn  a  dispatch 
from  England  announcing  his  marriage  to  Dame 
Eleanor  Cobham!" 

"It  is  false!"  she  cried,  then  tottered  like  to  faint. 
He  soothed  and  comforted,  but  was  still  far  from 
understanding  her. 

"Gloucester  is  unworthy  of  thee,"  he  urged.  "An- 
other, who  hath  long  worshipped  thee,  asketh  only  to 
devote  his  life  to  thy  service." 

"I  know  whom  thou  wouldst  signify.  The  Duke 
of  Burgundy  hath  ever  so  beset  me.  How  canst  thou 
counsel  such  unspeakable  disgrace?" 

"  God  forbid !  Thou  art  a  saint  too  holy  for  the  love 
of  sinful  man." 

"  Nay, "  she  protested,  "I  am  only  a  woman  who  loves 
her  husband,  and  will  defend  her  estates  for  him  'gainst 
all  the  dukes  and  popes  in  Christendom.  Therefore 
I  implore  thee  aid  my  faithful  equerry,  John  Robessart, 
to  deliver  me  from  this  prison." 

"This  night  I  will  come,"  he  promised,  "and  guard 
thee  to  Holland  and  to  safety." 

Hastening  to  the  inn  I  instructed  the  Delft-ware 
pedlars  that  they  should  await  us  in  a  forest  beyond  the 
city  walls  and,  as  the  evening  sun  was  slanting  its  long 
beams  across  the  grey  Gravensteen,  I  betook  myself 
again  to  the  postern  gate.  Applying  my  key  with 
confidence  to  the  lock,  I  was  astonished  to  find  the  door 


268  Old  Belgium 

bolted  on  the  inside.  I  tapped  softly,  hoping  that 
Ermengarde  would  draw  the  bolt. 

Presently,  creaking  on  its  ponderous  hinges,  the  gate 
swung  open  within  the  black  entry,  and  I  fell  into  the 
arms  of  a  burly  sentinel  whose  unshorn  chaps  grated 
against  my  amorous  lips. 

"What  wouldst  thou  here?"  he  demanded,  shaking 
me  as  a  terrier  might  a  rat. 

"I  bring  Jan  van  Eyck  a  message,"  I  protested, 
"from  the  Duke  of  Burgundy." 

"Thou  mayest  mount,"  the  watch  grumbled;  "I 
have  no  warrant  to  hinder  the  incoming  of  who-so- 
will.  But  thou  goest  not  out  until  dawn.  Not  a 
mouse  may  quit  the  castle  this  night." 

Hastily  bolting  into  the  studio  I  found  the  Countess 
and  Ermengarde  disguised  in  boys'  attire  ready  for 
departure.  Van  Borselen  also  had  returned  armed 
with  a  sword.  "I  have  left  a  letter  disowning  my  alle- 
giance to  the  Duke  of  Burgundy,"  he  explained,  "and 
am  ready  to  accompany  and  defend  the  Countess." 

"More  like  to  remain  in  custody  with  her,"  I  re- 
torted, "for  I  know  not  how  we  shall  make  shift  to 
leave  the  castle,"  and  I  reported  the  strict  orders 
newly  given  to  the  guards. 

Jan  van  Eyck  sprang  to  his  feet  and  touching  a 
spring  threw  open  a  concealed  door  disclosing  a  secret 
staircase.  "See,"  he  exclaimed,  "this  leadeth  to  a 
passage   beneath   the   moat,   debouching,   as  I  have 


An  Abandoned  Tapestry  269 

found  by  exploration,  in  a  chapel  beyond  the  city  wall. 
It  served  the  Counts  of  Flanders  long  syne,  when  they 
desired  to  sally  with  little  ceremony  from  the  custody 
of  their  too-loving  subjects.  Take  thou  the  command 
of  this  sortie,  Friend  Equerry." 

"I  will  then  lead  with  the  lanthorn,"  I  cried;  "do 
thou,  Judge  van  Borselen,  support  my  lady.  Ermen- 
garde,  follow  with  thy  satchel,  and  do  thou,  Messier 
Painter,  bring  up  the  rear,  our  defence  in  case  we  are 
pursued." 

"We  will  not  be  followed,"  spake  up  Ermengarde, 
"for  I  have  had  the  guard  heat  my  lady's  bath-room 
and  have  left  a  light  burning.  They  will  not  intrude 
but  will  respect  her  deshabille." 

"It  seemeth  men  have  more  courtesy  than  some 
women,"  I  said  sourly,  and  the  baggage  tittered. 

"Why  this  levity?"  asked  her  mistress. 

"John  Robessart  was  saying,"  quoth  the  hussy 
brazenly,  "that  yon  Bishop's  gear  were  a  rare  disguise, 
an  Messier  van  Eyck  would  but  lend  it." 

"Prate  no  longer,  but  away,"  I  cried,  and  with  that 
we  began  to  thread  the  long  passage. 

Loathly  it  was,  with  a  graveyard  stench,  and  dank 
with  drippings  from  the  leaky  walls,  slippery  and  dark 
too,  save  for  the  flickering  light  of  my  lanthorn,  which 
flung  wavering  shadows  behind  us,  frightening  the  rats 
helter-skelter  as  we  penetrated  more  deeply.  Their 
scuttling  and  the  echoes  of  our  own  footsteps  on  the 


270  Old  Belgium 

slimy  stones  were  gruesome  indeed;  but  when  we  had 
traversed  half  the  interminable  passage  a  veritable 
danger  beset  us. 

Torches  gleamed  in  the  darkness;  from  the  other 
extremity  of  the  noisome  gallery,  marching  toward 
us,  came  the  night-watch,  who,  seeing  our  light  and 
mistaking  us  for  comrades,  hailed  us  lustily,  demanding 
drink. 

We  retreated  to  a  shallow  cave  in  which  tools  were 
kept,  and  into  this  we  thrust  the  women  and  waited. 
The  flare  of  their  torches  showed  us  six  lusty  fellows 
armed  with  halberds  marching  toward  us  two  by  two. 

In  a  moment  they  were  upon  us.  I  felled  one  to  the 
earth,  then  rushed  with  drawn  sword  upon  his  com- 
panion and  pinked  his  arm  lightly — but  he  was  no 
coward,  and  changing  his  pike  to  his  left  hand  whirled 
it  like  a  quarter  staff  above  his  head.  There  was  no 
room  in  that  narrow  space  for  the  others  to  advance 
while  we  fought  like  fiends.  Van  Borselen  flashed  the 
cresset  in  the  eyes  of  my  opponent,  which  gave  me  the 
advantage  and  he  went  down. 

The  two  following  next,  charging  with  lowered  pikes, 
drave  at  me.  I  fell  sprawling,  with  a  glancing  thrust  on 
the  side  and  a  thwack  of  my  pate  on  the  pave.  Van 
Borselen  bestrode  me.  I  heard  for  a  moment  the  steady 
clack,  clack  of  his  sword  on  the  two  halberds  and 
wondered  dully  that  a  gens  de  robe  could  fence  so  well ; 
then  all  was  blackness  and  silence. 


An  Abandoned  Tapestry  271 

They  told  me  afterward  that  he  ran  one  through,  but 
lost  his  footing  on  the  slimy  pavement,  tripping  up  the 
other,  whom  he  held  down  with  an  iron  grip  and 
deprived  of  his  weapon. 

Leaping  over  the  entangled  heap,  the  remaining 
two  tore  through  the  tunnel,  but  van  Eyck,  snatching 
a  mattock  from  the  tool-closet,  crushed  the  head  of  one, 
and  the  sixth  alone  escaped,  speeding  to  give  alarm  at 
the  castle. 

"How  goes  it  with  thee,  my  brave  Robessart?" 
asked  my  lady. 

"Most  vilely  drunk,"  I  stuttered;  "'tis  debatable 
whether  I  have  the  right  use  of  my  senses." 

"Thou  hast  greater  exigency  for  the  use  of  thy 
legs,"  replied  van  Eyck,  "for  that  bawling  poltroon 
will  bring  a  pack  of  soldier  dogs  to  retrieve  us." 

Staggering  down  the  gallery  we  blundered  on, 
Ermengarde  supporting  me,  like  the  stout-hearted, 
stout-bodied  girl  she  was,  and  presently  we  reached 
a  short  stairway,  then  a  gate  opening  into  the  crypt 
of  the  chapel.     Alas !  it  was  locked ! 

Beyond,  steps  led  upward  and  a  dim  light  filtered 
down.  Rats  swarmed  by  us  squeezing  through  the  bars. 
These  vermin  were  not  frighted  by  our  passage,  but  ran 
past  and  over  us,  mad  to  gain  the  outer  air.  My  lady 
shrieked  as  they  brushed  her  feet,  and  we  fought  them 
off.  They  came  by  hundreds.  It  did  not  seem  possible 
that  the  sewers  of  the  city  could  contain  so  many. 


272  Old  Belgium 

At  last  the  hegira  ceased,  and  we  sate  us  down  to  rest 
and  consider,  when  my  lady  cried  out  that  she  heard 
the  gurgle  of  lapping  water.  Van  Eyck  swung  the 
lantern  downward,  and  saw  what  had  frighted  the 
rats.  They  of  the  castle  had  discovered  our  flight  and 
had  let  in  the  water.  We  were  trapped  and  would  be 
drowned. 

We  clattered  upon  the  gate  and  not  long  thereafter 
a  band  of  halberdiers  appeared.  They  had  been  sent 
from  the  castle  to  apprehend  us ;  and  though  they  saved 
us  from  the  watery  death,  yet  would  we  have  been 
scarce  advantaged,  but  for  van  Borselen.  He  loosing 
from  his  person  a  heavy  belt  bought  them  off,  swearing 
them  to  report  that  they  found  us  not. 

Discovering  in  the  neighbourhood  our  pottery 
merchants,  van  Eyck  bade  us  farewell,  and  we 
brought  my  lady  safely  to  her  strong  fortress  of 
Gorcum. 

Here  Judge  van  Borselen  left  us,  to  serve  her  in 
financing  her  army.  The  Duke  of  Burgundy  had 
created  him  tax-collector  for  her  estates  of  Holland 
and  Zealand,  and  he  continued  to  exercise  the  duties 
of  that  office,  with  the  difference  that  he  hence- 
forth rendered  his  accounts  directly  to  the  Countess 
Jacqueline. 

No  need  for  me  to  chronicle  how  gallantly  she  battled 
for  her  rights.  Her  campaign  of  two  years,  with  the 
little,  lukewarm  aid  from  England  granted  by  Parlia- 


An  Abandoned  Tapestry  273 

ment,  in  shame  for  Gloucester's  indifference,  is  known 
to  all. 

She  took  the  field  in  person,  the  peasants  rallying 
to  her  cause.  Fortresses  she  took  and  those  opening 
their  gates  to  her  she  defended.  In  skirmishes  and 
battles,  sieges  and  sallies,  the  taking  of  banners  by  her 
own  hand,  and  in  bushments  and  escalades  she  did  a 
man's  work  with  a  man's  endurance,  and  it  was  no  defeat 
at  arms  that  at  last  broke  her  great  spirit. 

Courageously  she  bore  the  capture  of  her  towns,  the 
surrender  of  her  army,  and  the  Duke  of  Burgundy's 
final  victory.  Not  a  whit  would  she  have  cared  for  the 
Pope's  decision  against  the  legality  of  her  marriage  if  the 
Duke  of  Gloucester  had  but  responded  to  her  many 
passionate  appeals  by  coming  or  sending  for  her.  But 
when  she  could  no  longer  doubt  that  he  had  accepted 
the  freedom  granted  by  the  Holy  Father  and  had 
publicly  wedded  with  his  mistress  Eleanor  Cobham — 
then,  and  then  only,  did  my  lady  acknowledge  herself 
conquered  and  desolate. 

So  indifferent  was  she  to  her  own  future  place  in 
Fortune's  pageant x  that  when  the  time  came  for  a 
treaty  with  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  she  agreed  to  all  his 
demands,  acknowledging  him  as  regent  of  her  countships 
and  consenting  if  she  married  without  his  approval  that 
her  subjects  should  owe  obedience  only  to  the  Duke. 

"Shakespeare  makes  Eleanor  Cobham  boast:     "Being  a  woman  I 
will  not  be  slack  to  play  my  part  in  Fortune's  pageant." 
18 


274  Old  Belgium 

She  had  indeed  no  thought  of  marriage,  regarding 
herself  as  broken-hearted  and  longing  to  enter  a  convent 
when  she  signed  this  treaty.  The  Duke,  however,  well 
knew  that  unless  she  retained  this  empty  semblance 
of  authority  (resigning  its  exercise  as  a  weak  feminine 
person  to  him  as  her  ruward  and  heir),  he  could  do 
nothing  with  her  loyal-hearted  folk  of  Hainault. 

Adroitly  he  managed  to  withdraw  her  from  her  city 
of  Mons,  by  making  her  "Lady  Forester  of  Holland," 
with  privileges  of  hunting  where  she  would. 

When  he  neglected  to  pay  her  stipulated  income,  so 
that  she  was  sore  harassed,  he  overreached  himself, 
for  it  was  then  that  she  acceded  to  the  oft-repeated 
request  of  van  Borselen  to  make  use  of  his  castle  of 
Martinsdijk. 

I  misdoubted  that  a  mere  commoner  could  possess  a 
chateau  more  sumptuously  appointed  than  that  of  my 
lady  at  Quesnoy.  But  the  one  particular  of  tapestries 
may  stand  for  an  ensample  of  how  vastly  his  treasuries 
outvied  hers.  My  lady's  chamber  was  garnished 
with  hangings  of  peacock-winged  angels,  after  designs 
by  Jan  van  Eyck;  his  own  with  grotesqueries  of  many 
strange  beasties;  the  two  an  allegory,  he  explained, 
symbolizing  the  disparity  in  their  souls. 

Yet,  for  all  this  seeming  humility,  he  caused  every 
wall  and  furnishment  to  be  ornamented  with  the  letter 
D,  intertwined  with  garlands. 

When,  much  intrigued,  she  demanded  the  answer 


An  Abandoned  Tapestry  275 

to  this  riddle,  he  said  the  device  stood  for  "Devotion," 
"Dijn  williger,  dienaur"  ("I  am  thy  serf  and  willingly 
will  serve"),  which  motto  he  had  assumed  since  having 
the  happiness  to  know  her. 

This  gave  my  lady  food  for  reflection,  the  more  that 
on  the  same  day  he  placed  in  my  hands  a  casket 
containing  deeds  for  lands,  bondments  for  money 
loaned,  and  gold-pieces  in  such  number  as  we  con- 
ceived not  treasuried  save  in  the  strong-box  of  an 
emperor. 

It  was  indeed  his  entire  fortune,  to  the  last  clinquar. 
"Tell  thy  mistress,"  he  said,  "  to  take  herefrom  whate'er 
she  needs,  for  all  my  possessions  are  hers,  and  to  aid 
her  is  my  highest  joy." 

What  more  to  chronicle,  save  that  such  long  patience 
and  devotion  past  belief  could  not  fail  of  its  reward, 
and  that  they  were  wedded  at  my  lady's  hunting- 
chateau  of  The  Hague. 

I  was  sent  to  Quesnoy  to  fetch  a  few  chests  of  her 
belongings.  There  I  found  an  unopened  package 
from  the  tapestry  weavers  of  Oudenaarde.  It  contained 
the  abandoned  tapestry  of  the  tournament,  commanded 
when  it  was  thought  that  the  Dukes  of  Burgundy  and 
Gloucester  would  splinter  lances  in  the  lists. 

With  good  gusto  I  kicked  the  pictured  persons  of  these 
vile  caitiffs  into  a  closet  of  worthless  lumber,  there  to 
be  consumed  by  moths  and  rats,  or  cut  into  door-mats  to 
be  drabbled  with  the  grime  of  stranger  feet.     Some  of 


276  Old  Belgium 

my  lady's  white  dogs  wandering  at  large  in  the  park 
came  at  my  whistle  and  ran  by  my  stirrup  all  the  long 
way  to  The  Hague. 

Philip  of  Burgundy  was  not  like  to  overlook  such 
high-handed  defiance.  Lurking  under  the  very  shadow 
of  her  castle  walls,  his  bravos  abducted  the  bridegroom 
and  carried  him  to  the  citadel  of  Rupelmonde  in 
Flanders. 

Secret  as  had  been  his  arrest  we  were  ware  of  it  an 
hour  later.  I  flung  on  my  war-harness,  and  my  lady 
rang  the  alarm,  summoning  her  meagre  troop  to  the 
pursuit. 

Speedily  down  the  Scheldt  we  rowed,  flat-boats  and 
wagons  following  us  with  cannon,  bombards,  and  siege 
enginery. 

At  Rupelmonde,  under  a  white  flag,  the  Duke  of 
Burgundy  sallied  forth  to  parley.  This  was  mere 
irony  on  the  part  of  Philip,  for  he  could  have  annihi- 
lated our  little  force  had  he  chosen  so  to  do.  He  sought 
instead,  by  playing  upon  the  anxiety  of  the  Countess, 
to  secure  her  abdication. 

In  her  sore  distress  she  agreed  to  the  renunciation 
of  every  vestige  of  authority,  rank,  and  property  in 
exchange  for  her  husband's  life.  Stripped  of  every- 
thing they  retired  to  Martinsdijk,  a  poor  gentleman 
and  his  dowerless,  untitled  wife.  Yet  methinks  they 
were  never  before  so  happy.  I  mind  me  of  a  poem 
which  van  Borselen  wrote  my  lady  at  this  time: 


An  Abandoned  Tapestry  277 

SESTINA 

The  love  of  Youth  is  lik  the  floure  of  daye 

That  burgeons  in  the  herte,  surpassing  bryghte, 

Blooming  too  soone,  it  wasteth  to  decaye, 
Poore  passion-floure,  enduring  for  a  nyghte, 

Then  trampled  under  fote  and  cast  awaye 

Ere  it  hath  knowne  the  noone  of  love's  delyte. 

Fulnes  of  love  and  life's  parfait  delyte 

But  comes  with  tyme  and  nyghte  of  ardent  daye, 

Inne  tranquile  houres  of  cool  star-studded  nyghte, 
Whenne  folded  floures  exhale  a  faynt  decaye, 

And  whyspered  nothings  'neath  the  ful  moone  bryghte 
Breathe  more  of  love  thanne  frensies  flung  awaye. 

As  fayrest  blossoms,  soonest  flung  awaye, 

Youth's  fervente  flame  of  love  and  fond  delyte 

Flares  for  a  litel,  lik  the  flush  of  daye, 

Then,  flickering,  dies  in  ashen-embered  nyghte, 

A  floure  out-bloomed,  that  festers  in  decaye, 
A  soul-consuming  flame  of  passion  bryghte ! 

Not  thus  the  love  of  manhood,  gleaming  bryghte, 
Grows  ever  bryghter  stille,  nor  flings  awaye 

The  folded  floure  of  Youth's  unknown  delyte 
But  turns  with  faery  touch  to  radiant  daye 

The  gloomy  shadows  of  the  darksome  nyghte, 
And  knoweth  naught  of  wasting  or  decaye. 

The  floure  of  Youth  is  born  but  to  decaye 

Its  noondaye  bloome,  erstwhile  so  wondrous  bryghte, 

The  blood-red  passion  floure  of  Youth's  brief  daye, 
The  battle-cry  of  brute  desire's  delyte, 

Satiety  doth  swiftly  burn  awaye — 
Leaving  the  ashes  only  of  the  nyghte. 


278  Old  Belgium 

But  who  so  loves  the  freshness  of  the  nyghte, 

Whose  fragraunce  wasteth  not,  nor  knows  decaye, 

And  fret  of  Noone  intolerably  bryghte, 
The  end  of  strife,  alle  sorrow  cast  awaye 

He  knoweth  fulnes  of  life's  blest  delyte 
The  floure  supreme  of  Love's  enduring  daye. 

ENVOI 

Princesse,  my  daye  thou  art  and  eke  my  nyghte, 
Floure  ever  bryghte  that  knoweth  not  decaye, 
Ne'er  flung  awaye,  blythe  bloom  of  love's  delyte. 

So  perfect  were  the  two  short  years  that  followed 
that  it  would  seem  Heaven  could  not  grant  mortals 
such  delight  upon  earth,  and  my  lady  was  called  above 
when  she  would  much  liefer  have  bided  below  with  the 
one  being  who  truly  loved  her. 

The  exposure  of  many  campaigns  had  been  more 
than  her  fragile  frame  could  survive,  and  on  a  Sabbath 
dawn,  as  we  knelt  in  tears  about  her,  my  lady  passed  to 
peace. 

All  that  night  she  was  wandering  in  her  mind.  At 
one  moment  she  deemed  herself  besieging  a  castle, 
another  begging  the  life  of  her  husband,  anon  galloping 
with  her  stag-hounds  through  the  forests;  but  never  a 
thought  or  word  of  recreant  Gloucester.  At  last  she 
imagined  herself  in  the  studio  of  Jan  van  Eyck. 

"Behold  that  great  multitude,"  she  cried,  "the 
heavenly  hosts  and  sainted  martyrs,  emperors,  popes, 
and  warriors  in  adoration  before  the  Lamb!" 


An  Abandoned  Tapestry  279 

Van  Borselen  sought  the  holy  script  and  read: 
"These  are  they  who  came  out  of  great  tribulation." 

"Out  of  great  tribulation,"  she  echoed,  "into,  into 
what?" 

He  read  on,  though  his  voice  broke  for  weeping: 
"They  shall  hunger  no  more,  neither  thirst  any  more. 
For  the  Lamb  shall  lead  them  unto  living  fountains  of 
waters;  and  God  shall  wipe  all  tears  from  their  eyes." 
He  pressed  her  fingers  to  his  lips  murmuring.  "And 
there  shall  be  no  more  death,  neither  sorrow  nor  crying, 
neither  shall  there  be  any  more  pain  for  the  former 
things  are  passed  away." 


CHAPTER  VIII 


A    RAT    I*   THE   ARRAS 


(THE  STORY  OF  egmont) 


HTHROUGH  the  thick  tapestry  Sabine  had  felt  it 
*  move.  Scarcely  a  tremor,  but  she  sensed  its 
loathsome  form  upon  her  neck,  as  she  leaned  against 
the  arras.  She  knew  it  instantly  for  a  rat  from  an 
offensive,  musky  odour,  and,  from  its  stealthy  vanish- 
ing, judged  it  more  frightened  than  herself,  though  her 
terror  of  the  tribe  amounted  to  hysteria.  She  could 
neither  shriek  nor  faint  here  in  church  and  create  a 
disturbance,  but  she  changed  her  seat  and  bravely 
mastered  her  nausea. 

The  tapestry  was  one  of  a  set  adorning  a  side  chapel. 
She  had  always  loved  to  regard  them,  for  they  depicted 
the  procession  of  the  miraculous  image  of  Notre  Dame 
du  Sablon.  The  comely  youths,  Charles  V.  and  his 
brother  Ferdinand,  were  bearing  our  lady  upon  a 
brancard,  accompanied  by  ecclesiastics  and  singing 
choristers. 

280 


6     2 


Margaret  of  Austria 

From  a  contemporary  print 


A  Rat  i'  the  Arras  281 

1 
There  was  a  pretty  legend,   which  Sabine  firmly 

believed,  that  the  image  had  voyaged  of  itself  to  the 

Church  of  Notre   Dame  du  Sablon,   and  was  most 

gracious  in  its  responses  to  all  petitions. 

In  another  panel  Margaret  of  Austria,  aunt  of  the 
Emperor,  was  represented,  kneeling  before  the  Virgin, 
with  her  five  homely  nieces,  who  were  doubtless 
beseeching  for  husbands. 

Sabine  had  a  kindly  feeling  toward  the  entire  family 
for  they  had  all  attended  her  wedding  (at  a  period 
much  later  than  that  depicted  in  the  tapestry).  The 
Emperor  Charles  was  not  so  handsome  as  when  a 
boy  bearing  the  sacred  image;  but  he  had  been  fond 
of  her  husband,  as  indeed  who  could  fail  to  be,  her 
glorious  Lamoral,  Count  of  Egmont  and  Prince  of 
Gave? 

While  she  was  thinking  of  him  he  entered  the  church 
and  made  his  way  through  the  crowd  toward  her. 
The  populace  of  Brussels  adored  him  for  his  great 
victories  of  St.  Quentin  and  Gravelines.  The  heart 
of  Sabine  swelled  with  pride  as  she  saw  the  sea  of 
admiring  faces  turn  toward  him. 

How  aristocratic  his  bearing  and  yet  how  debonair. 
His  hair  prematurely  streaked  with  grey  only  added  to 
the  distinction  of  his  appearance,  which  owed  nothing 
to  his  princely  attire. 

There  was  no  vacant  seat  but  the  one  beside  the 
tapestry.     Sabine's  lips  framed  the  words.     "Beware, 


282  Old  Belgium 

a  rat!"  He  was  too  far  to  hear,  but  saw  her  fright, 
and  smiled  reassuringly. 

Then  as  he  sank  upon  his  knees  she  fell  to  comparing 
her  husband — tall,  with  features  of  feminine  delicacy, 
soft  brown  eyes  and  slight  moustache  shading  lips 
modelled  like  those  of  Antinous — with  the  portrait  of 
the  youthful  Emperor  upon  the  tapestry ;  and,  flattered 
as  the  latter  was,  knew  that  Egmont  was  far  more 
kingly. 

She  remembered  the  Emperor,  on  his  last  appearance 
in  Brussels,  at  the  great  ceremony  of  his  abdication. 
Decrepit  at  fifty-five,  he  had  leaned  for  support  on 
the  shoulder  of  the  Prince  of  Orange.  His  frail  boyish 
face  had  grown  coarse  and  repulsive,  the  Hapsburg 
jaw  protruding  heavily,  the  lower  lip  pendulous  and 
flabby,  only  the  brow  and  eye  retaining  their  expression 
of  majesty. 

Then  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  tapestry  swayed 
slightly.  An  instant  later  a  letter  slipped  from  its 
folds  and  her  husband's  hand  closed  upon  it;  the  tapes- 
try swayed  again  and  all  was  as  before. 

Vaguely  troubled,  Sabine  sought  her  husband  after 
the  service,  but  found  difficulty  in  approaching  him  for 
his  friends  besieged  him  on  all  sides.  Murmurs  of 
admiration  had  disturbed  the  reverent  silence  when  he 
entered,  but  as  he  descended  the  church  steps  a  storm 
of  huzzas  rent  the  air. 

His  great  slouched  hat  in  hand,  bowing  acknowledg- 


■a 


5 

a, 

ft. 


0 

«j 

<U 

2 

| 

o 

> 

~ 

6 

s 

0 

JJ 

a 

ja 

i 

u 

w   e* 


5  ^ 


A  Rat  i'  the  Arras  283 

merits  in  every  quarter,  as  though  all  this  homage  were 
intended  for  himself,  the  mercurial  Baron  Brederode 
flattered  his  general  with  protestations  of  devotion. 
"Willingly,"  he  exclaimed,  "would  I  deny  God  to 
become  thy  dog,  'Mustache,'  and  follow  at  thy  heels!" 

Catching  sight  of  his  father's  friend,  ducking  between 
the  legs  of  the  crowd,  Joconde,  the  merry  five-year-old 
son  of  Egmont  ran  to  the  side  of  Brederode.  Gradually 
the  two  edged  their  way  to  Sabine  and  walked  across 
the  square  to  the  home  of  Egmont. 

While  waiting  for  the  Count  to  disengage  himself 
from  his  admirers,  Brederode  went  into  the  garden  with 
Joconde. 

"  Everyone  loves  Little  Father,"  the  child  exclaimed 
proudly.     "Is  it  not  so,  Baron  Breddy?" 

"Everyone,"  the  Baron  replied  with  emphasis, 
"except  the  Duke  of  Alva;  and  he  does  not  signify." 

"Why  doesn't  the  Duke  of  Alva  love  Little  Father?" 
asked  Joconde. 

"Because  your  father  did  what  Alva  said  was  im- 
possible. He  won  the  battle  of  Gravelines.  '  Impossi- 
ble for  you,'  said  the  King,  'but  not  for  a  greater  man.' 
The  Duke  will  never  forgive  your  father  for  that." 

"Show  me  how  Little  Father  won  the  battle," 
begged  the  boy. 

"Petit  polisson,"  replied  the  Baron;  "I  have  told 
you  twenty  times  already,  but  now  we  will  enact  it 
veraciously.     I  will  be  your  father;   the  purple  fleur- 


284  Old  Belgium 

de-lys  yonder,  the  Gascons.  The  white  lilies  will  do 
duty  as  the  English  ships.  The  tulips  behind  me  are 
Lazarus  Schwendi's  black  hussars.  Thou  shalt  play 
my  part,  and  with  Mustache  as  cavalry,  sneak  around 
by  the  downs,  under  cover  of  the  rose-bushes  and 
turn  De  Therme's  left.  Now,  when  I  shout  your 
father's  battle  cry, '  Follow  me,  all  who  love  the  Father- 
land!' have  at  them  helter-skelter,  and  drive  the  frog- 
eaters  into  the  sea.  Here  we  go.  Yell '  Huzza  for  Eg- 
mont!'  Pikemen,  musketeers,  lancers,  sword  to  sword, 
breast  to  breast,  horse  to  horse!    The  foe  is  ours!" 

Carried  away  by  his  enthusiasm  Brederode  sprang 
into  the  iris-bed  lopping  off  blossoms  right  and  left 
with  his  sword;  while  Joconde  echoing  his  cry  charged 
with  Mustache  through  the  hedge  of  roses.  In  their 
furious  m&lee  they  overturned  the  bee-hive.  The 
vengeful  bees  issued  in  an  unanticipated  sortie,  and, 
attacking  the  valiant  army,  front  and  rear,  routed  it 
ignominiously. 

Alarmed  by  Gautier,  the  butler,  who  declared  that 
Monsieur  the  Baron  was  drunk  again  and  murdering 
their  little  child,  Egmont  ran  to  the  garden  to  rescue 
Joconde  from  the  swarming  bees. 

Brederode,  beside  himself  with  pain  could  give  no 
explanation,  but  rushed  cursing  hither  and  thither. 

"Take  the  boy  within,"  exclaimed  Egmont,  "and 
try  to  understand  why  he  made  this  raid  upon  the 
honey.     I  can  make  nothing  of  his  talk." 


A  Rat  i'  the  Arras  285 

It  was  incoherent  indeed,  for  Joconde,  between  his 
howls,  protested:  "He  was  thee,  and  I  was  he!  But 
the  bees  would  not  play  fair.  The  French  did  not  really 
make  sortie  from  Gravelines.  They  did  not  vanquish 
thee,  Little  Father,  but  the  bees  would  not  surrender. 
They  did  not  play  fair!" 

Sabine  balsamed  the  stings  of  the  gallant  combatants 
and  Brederode  assuaged  the  grief  of  Joconde  by  singing 
a  song  with  which  his  troop  were  wont  to  hearten  their 
spirits  for  the  charge. 

BOOTS  AND  SADDLES 

Hot  with  the  wine  cup  red, 

Drunken  and  ruddy ! 
Rolling  gait,  reeling  head, 

Rapiers  bloody. 

Ghostly  the  cresset  flares 

Best  to  be  wary, 
Hark,  'tis  the  bugle  blares! 

Heedless  we  tarry. 

Spreads  the  cold,  ashen  dawn, 

Mount,  gallants  merry. 
0,  ere  the  game  be  gone! 

On  to  the  quarry. 

One  more  last  stirrup-cup, 

Fair  or  foul  weather, 
Fill,  brim  the  tankard  up, 

Drink  we  together. 


286  Old  Belgium 

Sharp  are  our  swords  and  dirks, 

Brave  blades,  each  dagger. 
Though  death  in  ambush  lurks 

Gaily  we'll  swagger. 

Then  through  the  daggered  dark, 

Through  mire  and  bracken, 
Strike  poniards  to  the  mark. 

Halt  not  nor  slacken. 

Leave  we  our  wine  and  mirth 

Fear  we  no  evil. 
Mount,  but  draw  tight  the  girth, 

Ride  like  the  devil ! 

After  dinner,  when  Sabine  had  retired  with  the 
children,  Egmont  and  his  friend  sat  late  together. 

"You  are  not  drinking  as  usual  tonight,  Brederode," 
said  his  host,  passing  the  decanter. 

UV  faith  no,"  replied  the  other.  "I  have  weighty 
matters  to  discuss  with  you  which  demand  a  clear 
head.  There  is  trouble  brewing,  that  you  alone  can 
avert.  The  Inquisition  is  burning  too  many  good 
citizens.    There  is  revolt  everywhere." 

Egmont  frowned.  "I  do  not  wonder,"  he  said.  "It 
is  the  work  of  that  cursed  Granvelle.  He  sets  the 
Inquisition  on  every  rich  man  for  the  sake  of  his 
fortune." 

"Rebellion  is  ripening,"  replied  Brederode.  "I 
have  it  from  good  authority  that  when  two  heretic 
ministers  were  taken  for  execution  to  the  public  square 


A  Rat  i'  the  Arras  287 

at  Valenciennes  they  were  rescued  by  the  rabble,  who 
tore  lighted  faggots  from  the  pyre  and  belaboured  the 
executioners." 

Egmont's  eyes  kindled.  "Whether  this  new  religion 
be  madness  or  no  it  cannot  be  stamped  out  by  the 
Inquisition.  The  Cardinal  is  not  a  Fleming ;  he  does  not 
know  our  temper.  The  Council  shall  write  the  King 
urging  him  to  moderate  the  edict." 

Brederode  shook  his  head.  "The  Cardinal  is  not 
only  a  member  of  your  Council,  he  boasts  that  he  is  the 
Council." 

Egmont  broke  out  angrily.  "'Sdeath!  Brederode, 
are  you  turned  Cardinalist?  I  shall  chastise  this 
popinjay  one  day  if  the  saints  do  not  mend  my 
temper." 

Brederode  tapped  his  sword.  "That  is  exactly 
what  is  on  my  mind,"  he  said. 

Egmont  calmed  at  once.  "What  in  the  devil's 
name  do  you  insinuate?" 

"Only  this,  sixty  thousand  armed  men  attend  the 
Protestant  field  preachings.  All  they  need  is  a  leader, 
a  van  Artevelde,  but  they  would  scorn  to  follow  a 
brewer;  they  demand  the  most  illustrious  warrior  of 
our  age.  If  you  will  command  them  they  will  seize 
Brussels  before  Philip  can  send  his  army." 

"Hush,  that  were  treason,"  whispered  Egmont. 
"Ne'er  will  I  take  arms  against  the  King.  But  for  the 
Cardinal — war,  not  a  bloody  but  a  merry  one.    We  will 


288  Old  Belgium 

ridicule  him  in  pasquinades.  His  life  shall  be  such  a 
burden  that  he  will  gladly  resign  his  office." 

"So  be  it.  Come  to  Count  Cullemburg's  house 
tonight.  There  will  be  a  foregathering  of  madcap 
fellows  to  wassail  the  moon  down  and  the  sun  up.  We 
will  form  a  league  which  shall  harry  the  Cardinal  to  an 
early  grave." 

"That  I  will.  The  popinjay  has  embroidered  a 
cardinal's  hat  on  the  liveries  of  his  servants.  He  has 
called  our  young  Belgian  bloods  dunces.  Very  well, 
we  will  take  the  fool's  cap  as  our  device.  Let  him  be- 
ware the  jester's  gibe!" 

ii 

son  Eminence  rouge 

Anthony  Perenot,  Cardinal  Granvelle,  was  in  resi- 
dence at  La  Fontaine,  his  charming  villa  in  the  environs 
of  Brussels.  Through  the  open  casements  of  his  study 
the  warm  summer  wind  brought  the  fragrance  of  roses 
and  hyacinths.  It  was  too  glorious  a  day  for  writing, 
and,  thrusting  from  him  a  voluminous  pile  of  papers, 
he  summoned  his  secretary. 

"Francois,"  he  said,  "dispatch  these  memorials  to 
Madrid,  and  acquaint  Donna  Felicidad  that  I  will 
await  her  in  the  garden." 

As  the  Cardinal  descended  the  terrace  a  silvery  voice 
laughed:     "I  am  here,  Uncle;  I  was  waiting  outside 


A  Rat  i'  the  Arras  289 

the  window  for  you  to  finish  those  stupid  letters.  Of 
what  use  is  a  secretary  if  he  does  not  attend  to  your 
correspondence  ? ' ' 

The  Cardinal  smiled  indulgently.  "The  reason, 
Felicidad,  that  my  writing  consumes  so  much  time  is 
because  I  dictate  to  both  correspondents.  First,  letters 
from  Margaret  of  Parma  to  Philip,  enclosing  therewith 
drafts  of  answers  which  he  will  return.  It  is  just  as 
well,  you  see,  for  one  head  to  manage  these  complicated 
affairs." 

"But  how  silly,  to  waste  time  instructing  those 
puppets  and  in  making  them  believe  that  they 
accomplish  all  of  their  own  volition." 

"'Tis  an  amusing  game.  With  no  one  have  I  e'er 
been  so  frank  before.  I  recognize  that  there  is  some- 
thing other  than  thistle-down  within  your  pretty  head. 
Did  you  hear  the  letter  I  was  dictating  Francois  to 
write  Count  Egmont?" 

"Every  word!  I  am  your  little  white  rat,  Uncle;  I 
can  slip  about  so  silently  that  no  one  guesses  me  near. 
I  gave  Madame  of  Parma  quite  a  start  last  night,  when 
she  was  scolding  Prince  William  of  Orange.  Why 
does  she  dislike  him.  Is  it  because  she  is  afraid  of 
him?" 

"Tut,  tut,  have  you  not  learned  that  we  do  not 
scold  people  whom  we  fear?  The  Regente  is  too 
stupid  to  be  afraid  of  the  Silent  One.  She  thinks 
him  tractable  because  he  does   not  fly  into  a  pas- 

X0 


290  Old  Belgium 

sion  like  Egmont;  in  reality  he  is  ten  times  more 
dangerous." 

"Is  Egmont  dangerous?" 

"That  Friend  of  Smoke  is  dangerous  only  to  himself. 
To  us  he  may  be  very  useful.  You  knew  him  once. 
How  intimately?" 

"'Twas  long  ago,  when  he  was  returning  from  the 
war  in  Barbary.     He  was  but  nineteen." 

"And  you  fourteen.     Fruits  ripen  early  in  Seville." 

"Yes,  Uncle,  my  Cousin  Carmen  and  I  were  carrying 
a  basket  of  grapes  through  the  inn  courtyard.  A 
group  of  officers  were  playing  mandolins  and  drinking 
at  a  table.  Seeing  us,  they  demanded  a  song.  I 
trilled  a  merry  canzone.    Wouldst  hear  it  now,  Uncle?  " 

And  Felicidad  sang: 

THE  RAT 

Like  the  cliquetis  of  a  castanet 

In  a  patio  of  Seville, 
Or  the  pick,  pick,  pick,  in  a  cabaret, 

Of  the  mandolin's  tinkling  trill. 

So  I  patter  softly  through  the  wet 

Of  the  loathly  kennel  rill 
And  I  scratch,  scratch,  scratch,  on  the  parapet, 

Or  the  stone  of  the  window-sill. 

I  jig,  like  a  dancing  marionette 

And  a  Jumping  Jack  or  Jill; 
While  I  shriek,  shriek,  shriek,  like  a  paroquet 

With  squeaks  of  laughter  shrill. 


A  Rat  i   the  Arras  291 

I  nibble  beneath  the  cabinet, 

In  the  hours  of  midnight  chill, 
And  I  gnaw,  gnaw,  gnaw,  as  my  teeth  I  whet, 

And  I  saw,  with  my  claws,  and  drill. 

In  the  holy  fount  of  the  anchoret, 

I  disport,  till  I've  drunk  my  fill, 
And  I  tear,  tear,  tear,  through  the  closest  net, 

Till  I  wreak  my  vengeful  will. 

So  then  dub  me  any  epithet, 

Howsoe'er  unclean  or  ill, 
I  will  rap,  tap,  tap,  like  a  drum-cadet, 

For  a  rat  you  can  never  kill. 

"Then  Egmont  cried:  'If  thou  art  a  rat  then  am  I 
a  cat ! '  and  springing  over  tables  and  benches  gave  me 
chase.  I  crimsoned  his  face  well  with  my  grapes  and 
ran  away.  How  his  comrades  laughed,  declaring  that 
it  was  the  first  time  Egmont  had  been  wounded. 
Thereafter  I  never  saw  him.  I  misdoubt  if  he  would 
recognize  me." 

"He  remembers  you,  child,  without  doubt.  'Twas 
a  good  beginning.  Hearken,  Felicidad,  Egmont  is  the 
most  noble  seigneur  in  Belgium,  the  richest,  dearest 
to  the  popular  heart  and  to  that  of  the  King.  He  is 
impressionable,  easily  flattered,  a  character  made  for  us 
to  mould." 

"I  do  not  understand." 

"Then  you  are  not  so  quick  as  I  supposed.  I  am 
weary  of    the    Regente.      Time    was    when  she   was 


292  Old  Belgium 

docile.  I  could  guide  her  exactly  as  I  wished,  but  she 
is  developing  the  Hapsburg  obstinacy.  She  shows 
dangerous  symptoms  of  independent  thought  and 
action.  The  Inquisition,  my  child,  is  a  great  blessing. 
Everyone  in  the  Netherlands  fears  for  his  life.  All  that 
a  man  hath  will  he  give  for  that,  and  we  are  judiciously 
using  the  wine-press.  But  the  Regente  has  learned  the 
lesson  which  I  have  taught  her  almost  too  well.  She  has 
attempted  a  little  injudicious  squeezing  of  her  own ;  has 
taken  bribes  to  guarantee  certain  weathly  personages 
from  me.  Most  puerile.  I  fear  I  shall  be  compelled 
to  have  her  recalled." 

"Have  the  King's  sister  deposed!" 

"Quite  so,  but  in  the  meantime  I  must  bestir  me,  for 
a  substitute.  These  turbulent  Belgians  would  go  mad 
with  joy  to  have  an  over-stadtholder  chosen  from 
among  their  own  greatest  nobles." 

"But  could  you  persuade  Egmont  to  uphold  the 
Inquisition?" 

The  Cardinal  half  closed  his  eyes.  "I  might  not  be 
able  to  persuade  him,"  he  replied,  "but  Egmont  has 
an  affectionate  nature,  his  wife  might  accomplish 
what  I  could  not." 

"His  wife!  Sabine  of  Bavaria!  Uncle,  she  hates 
you!" 

The  Cardinal  laughed  and  continued  to  study  his 
niece,  who  was  nervously  stripping  the  roses  from  a 
delicate  bush. 


A  Rat  i'  the  Arras  293 

"Sabine,  Countess  of  Egmont,  has  a  remarkable 
constitution,"  he  said,  "as  strong  as  that  rose-tree's, 
and  yet" — he  stooped  and  regarded  the  plant  with 
sudden  interest.  "What  a  pity,"  he  said,  "I  verily 
believe  some  little  creature  has  gnawed  the  stem. 
Can  it  possibly  have  been  a  rat?' ' 

m 

DOUBT 

A  soul-mist,  through  whose  rifts  familiar  stars 
Beholding  we  misname. 

—Jean  Ingelow. 

Egmont  fingered  the  tiny,  musk-scented  missive 
within  the  breast  of  his  doublet.  Its  penetrating  odour 
permeated  his  clothing  and  wakened  vague,  haunting 
memories  of  glorious  Sevillian  nights. 

The  clack  of  the  castanet  to  flying  feet,  the  flash  of 
gaily  embroidered  mantillas,  and  languorous  Andalusian 
eyes  swam  before  him  in  that  seductive  perfume. 

His  hand  had  closed  over  the  billet  thrust  before 
him  as  he  knelt,  for  it  might  be  of  moment;  there  were 
other  conspiracies  hatching  than  those  of  love.  When 
quite  alone  he  tore  open  the  letter  and  read : 

"Senor  Lamoral,  Count  Egmont: 

"The  Little  White  Rat  has  nibbled  her  way  to 
Brussels.  Wouldst  thou  know  why?  Then  fail  not 
to  attend  the  Regente's  ball.     There  thou  shalt  find 


294  Old  Belgium 

one  who  would  make  amends  for  so  saucily  staining 
thy  fine  lace  collar." 

Egmont  had  read  with  increasing  bewilderment 
but  now  burst  into  a  laugh.  "Ten  years  agone!  She 
will  find  me  changed."  He  sprang  to  his  mirror  and 
turned  up  his  mustachios,  a,  la  Henri  of  Navarre. 
Then  he  thought  of  his  wife  and  stepping  to  the  fire- 
place deliberately  burned  the  billet.  As  he  did  so 
Sabine  entered. 

"Our  Pierrot  and  Columbine  costumes  for  the 
masquerade  have  arrived,"  she  said.  "Would  you 
like  to  inspect  them?" 

The  burning  letter  diffused  a  heavy  scent;  Sabine 
sniffed  and  looked  about.  Egmont  drew  her  toward 
him.  "Dear,  would  it  disappoint  you  very  much  not 
to  attend  this  ball?" 

"No  indeed,"  she  replied  "but  will  not  the  Regente 
be  offended?" 

He  shrugged.  "A  fig  for  the  Regente,"  then,  fram- 
ing her  face  in  his  hands,  continued:  "My  little  wife 
has  seemed  wan  and  listless  of  late.  These  court 
functions  are  very  wearisome.  What  say  you  to  a 
vacation  at  the  chateau? 

"You  will  come  too,  Lamoral?" 

"But  certainly.  It  is  time  I  looked  over  the  altera- 
tions the  architect  is  making  and  the  beck  must  be 
swarming  with  trout.  Let  us  set  forth  at  once, 
dearest." 


A  Rat  i'  the  Arras  295 

As  he  spoke  Gautier  entered  bearing  a  letter.  Eg- 
mont  tore  it  open  and  read:  " I  shall  come  to  Brussels 
for  the  ball  and  will  slip  away  with  you  for  a  private 
conference.  Concoct  some  pretext  to  keep  your  wife 
away.  The  matter  is  of  vital  moment."  There  was 
no  signature  but  he  recognized  the  script,  that  of  the 
Prince  of  Orange. 

"Peste!"  he  exclaimed:  "I  shall  be  unable  to 
accompany  you,  but  will  follow  soon." 

"I  will  await  you,"  Sabine  protested. 

"Nay,  dearest,  it  happens  well,  this  is  an  important 
meeting.  We  must  not  be  disturbed.  Be  off  all  of 
you  and  amuse  yourselves  well.  Flinging  the  letter 
beside  the  one  still  smouldering  he  hastily  left  the 
room. 

Sabine  approached  the  fire-place ;  as  the  billet  curled 
and  nickered  she  read:  "Concoct  some  pretext  to 
keep  your  wife  away,"  and  on  the  incinerated  paper 
beneath  it,  "The  Little  White  Rat." 

The  heart  of  Sabine  was  very  heavy.  Never  before 
had  she  doubted  her  husband's  love.  As  yet  her  doubt 
was  the  vaguest  shadow,  for  who  could  be  more  ten- 
derly solicitous.  Had  he  not  noted  her  pallor  and 
insisted  that  she  leave  the  city  with  the  children  for 
their  chateau  of  Gaesbeek, x  though,  immersed  as  he  was 
in  important  affairs,  he  could  not  accompany  her? 

1  Ten  miles  south-west  of  Brussels  near  Lennich  St.  Martin. 


296  Old  Belgium 

Therefore,  because  he  desired  it,  though  she  would 
liefer  have  remained  at  his  side,  and  because  country- 
life  was  better  for  the  children  and  especially  for  active 
Joconde  they  were  at  Gaesbeek. 

The  beck  was  full  of  trout,  an  endless  source  of  amuse- 
ment for  them  all — from  Father  Xavier  the  tutor,  who 
had  been  accorded  a  vacation  from  his  duties  at  Notre 
Dame  du  Sablon,  to  blond-headed  Joconde,  that 
"  naughty  Cupidon,"  the  special  trial  of  the  good  priest. 

Sabine  sat  apart  under  the  great  willow  and  watched 
their  sport  idly.  After  a  time  Joconde  left  the  others 
and  stealing  behind  her,  clasped  his  hands  over  her 
eyes.  She  laughed  at  his  "Guess  who,"  and  drawing 
down  the  plump  white  hands  covered  them  with  kisses. 

"I  did  not  frighten  you  this  time,  Little  Mother, 
not  so  much  as  that  day  in  the  church,  when  you 
jumped  right  out  of  your  chair ! " 

"Frightened  me  in  the  church?"  she  echoed. 

"Yes,  Little  Mother,  you  thought  I  was  a  rat!" 

She  started  now  in  earnest.  "Was  that  you,  Jo- 
conde, who  stole  your  hand  through  the  tapestry?" 

"And  stroked  your  neck,  Little  Mother;  but  I  did 
not  mean  to  scare  you,  at  least  not  so  badly." 

"What  were  you  doing,  you  bad  boy,  behind  the 
arras?" 

"  I  was  waiting  there  for  father;  the  lacy  lady  wanted 
me  to  give  him  the  letter  right  away,  and  so  nobody 
would  see." 


A  Rat  i'  the  Arras  297 

"The  lacy  lady,  Joconde?" 

"Yes,  Little  Mother,  a  lady  in  a  pretty  lace  dress, 
with  a  lace  shawl  over  her  head, — that  smelled — like 
medicine." 

"You  mean  of  perfumery." 

"No,  not  'fumery,"  and  the  child  screwed  his  small 
nose,  "like — like  your  fur  cloak,  nice  and  not  nice." 

"Civet,"  mused  Sabine.  "I  smelled  it  that  day 
when  you  gave  the  letter." 

"Yes,  the  letter  smelled  so  too.  I  washed  my  hands 
afterward.  It  tickled  my  nose,  I  liked  it  and  I  did  not 
like  it." 

Sabine  kissed  the  blond  head,  then  suddenly  held 
him  at  arm's  length.  "Joconde,"  she  exclaimed  with 
wide  eyes,  "I  sense  that  perfume  again!" 

"Yes,  Little  Mother.  See,  another  letter!"  and  he 
took  it  from  his  doublet.  "The  lacy  lady  drove  by 
the  great  gate  of  the  chateau  today.  She  saw  me  on 
the  lawn,  beckoned  me  to  her,  and  bade  me  give  it  to 
Little  Father,  and  a  book  to  Father  Xavier." 

"But  your  father  is  not  here." 

"I  did  not  have  time  to  tell  her,  she  talked  so  fast 
and  then  drove  away." 

"What  did  she  say,  Joconde?" 

"  'Give  it  to  no  one  else.     It  is  very  important.'  " 

"Then  I  must  drive  to  the  city  and  take  it  to  him." 
But  as  Sabine  hesitated  the  silken  cord  which  fastened 
the  letter  unknotted.     Surely   she  did  no  wrong  in 


298  Old  Belgium 

ascertaining   the   urgency  of  the  occasion,  and  she 
read: 

"Dear  Friend: 

"The  Regente  is  seriously  vexed  with  you  for  declin- 
ing her  invitation.  She  wishes  to  consult  with  you  on 
a  vital  matter.    Fail  not  to  come. 

"Felicidad." 

There  was  still  time.  Egmont  must  be  notified;  and 
Sabine  hastened  to  the  city.  The  palace  windows  were 
ablaze  with  lights  as  she  passed,  her  own  house  dark. 

"Monseigneur  has  hastily  decided  to  attend  the  ball, 
and  has  just  departed,"  Gautier  explained. 

"I  also  have  changed  my  mind,"  said  Sabine.  "My 
costume  is  in  my  dressing-room.  Bid  the  coachman 
wait." 

As  Sabine  entered,  the  Pierrot  and  Columbine  gavotte 
was  progressing.  She  slipped  into  an  unobtrustive  seat 
to  watch  its  evolutions.  It  was  easy  to  recognize 
Egmont,  for  he  carried  himself  with  a  graceful  insou- 
ciance which  was  unmistakable.  Her  admiring  gaze 
wandered  to  his  partner — piquant,  full  of  dash  and 
abandon;  her  imperious  stamp,  and  fingers  snapped  at 
intervals  had  all  the  bravado  of  a  fandango.  Sabine 
watched  her  fascinated,  until  a  faint,  repugnant  per- 
fume assaulted  her  senses  and  drowned  every  other 
sensation  in  an  overwhelming  flood  of  jealousy. 

The  dance  ended  Egmont  and  his  Columbine  wan- 


A  Rat  i'  the  Arras  299 

dered  to  the  garden.  "  It  was  good  of  you,  Felicidad," 
he  said  "to  avert  the  anger  of  the  Regente  from  Sabine 
by  impersonating  her  this  evening." 

Felicidad  laughed.  "Can  you  not  forget  Sabine  for 
an  instant  while  I  tell  you  why  I  sought  this  interview? 
Egmont,  I  love  you." 

"Hush!"  he  said  earnestly.  "This  is  folly.  We 
must  never  meet  again.  My  friendship  cannot  aid 
you;  it  is  dangerous  for  us  both." 

She  caught  his  hand,  and  pleaded.  "Hear  me, 
Egmont.  You  stand  at  the  parting  of  the  ways. 
Without  my  help  you  go  to  death.  I  read  my  uncle's 
letters  and  will  report  all  to  you.  Better,  I  can  imitate 
the  Cardinal's  hand  and  interline  in  his  despatches 
advice  which  the  king  will  follow  blindly.  Philip 
has  under  consideration  the  recall  of  the  Regente.  I 
will  counsel  your  appointment  in  her  stead.  Now, 
Egmont,  will  you  not  love  me?" 

"No,  Felicidad,"  he  replied  coldly,  "I  love  Sabine 
so  utterly  that  there  is  no  cranny  in  my  heart  for 
another.  Nor  will  I,  for  any  bribe,  feign  affection  to 
purchase  the  services  of  a  spy." 

"Take  my  hate  since  you  scorn  my  love,"  she  said, 
and  struck  him  full  in  the  face. 

Disdaining  to  play  the  eavesdropper,  Sabine  had 
wandered  aimlessly  through  the  salons  until  the  return 
of  Egmont,  when  avoiding  the  unmasking  she  stole 
away  indignant  and  heart-sore  to  her  home. 


300  Old  Belgium 

Gautier  stared  with  protruding  eyeballs.  "Am 
I  then  drunk  without  drinking,  that  I  thus  see  double?" 
he  exclaimed.  "Having  just  admitted  you,  and  seeing 
no  one  go  out,  I  am  at  a  loss,  madame,  to  explain  your 
reappearance." 

"Search  the  house!"  cried  Sabine,  "some  thief  hath 
entered." 

i  They  tiptoed  cautiously  about,  discovering  no  one, 
and  while  Sabine  was  searching  the  upper  chambers 
Egmont  entered  accompanied  by  his  friends,  William 
of  Orange  and  Count  Horn.  They  passed  immedi- 
ately to  the  library,  and  while  Gautier  strove  to  speak 
his  master  closed  the  door. 

Sabine  was  in  a  quandary.  Should  she  intrude  upon 
this  secret  meeting  to  warn  her  husband  of  an  imagi- 
nary danger?  Instead  she  would  keep  watch  that  no 
spy  or  assassin  lurked  in  the  hall.  Dismissing  Gautier, 
she  ensconced  herself  behind  a  statue  which  occupied  a 
niche  near  the  library  door. 

A  murmur  of  earnest  debate  came  to  her,  but  not 
for  some  moments  could  she  distinguish  words.  Sud- 
denly Egmont's  voice  rang  clear : 

"Loyalty  is  my  watchword;  loyalty  to  wife,  religion, 
country,  and  king.  God  helping  me  I  shall  be  faithful 
to  each  and  all." 

"My  friend,"  replied  Orange,  "you  will  find  loyalty 
to  king  unconformable  with  loyalty  to  country,  as  I 
have  found  vassalage  to  the  Catholic  faith  inconsistent 


A  Rat  i'  the  Arras  3°i 

with  the  duty  I  owe  my  Protestant  wife.  If  the 
Inquisition  had  Sabine  in  its  net  would  you  still 
uphold  it?" 

"My  wife  is  a  faithful  daughter  of  the  Church," 
protested  Egmont,  "and  has  nothing  to  fear." 

"How  many  good  Catholics  have  we  seen  burned, 
for  the  pretended  crime  of  singing  in  Flemish  psalms 
which  we  sing  in  Latin ;  when  the  real  occasion  of  their 
death  was  that  their  possessions  were  coveted  by  the 
Cardinal.  Egmont,  it  is  fortunate  that  the  Regente 
wishes  to  send  you  as  her  envoy  to  Spain  at  this  time. 
You  will  inform  Philip  that  the  whole  machinery  of 
edicts,  informers,  inquisitors,  and  scaffolds  must  once 
and  forever  be  abolished.  Of  your  success  in  this 
dubious  undertaking,  I  have  little  hope;  but,  if  anyone 
can  influence  his  Majesty,  you  are  the  man.  Above 
all,  convince  Philip  that  the  Cardinal  is  fomenting 
disorder  and  must  be  recalled." 

As  Orange  ceased  speaking,  Felicidad  ran  down  the 
staircase  past  Sabine,  who  attempted  vainly  to  detain 
her,  into  the  street. 

Hearing  the  scuffle  Egmont  came  from  the  library 
and  seizing  Sabine  shook  her  violently.  "Spy,"  he 
hissed;  then,  as  he  recognized  her  beseeching  face, 
"Mon  Dieu!  Is  it  you,  Sabine?  Whom  then  can  I 
trust?" 

"Hear  me,  Lamoral,"  she  pleaded.  But,  placing 
his  hand  over  her  mouth,  Egmont  led  her  to  a  small 


302  Old  Belgium 

room  at  the  extremity  of  the  hall.  "Not  a  word,"  he 
commanded.  "My  friends  must  not  comprehend  that 
you  were  listening  to  our  secrets.  You  shall  have  no 
opportunity  to  divulge  them  now." 

Locking  the  door  he  returned  to  the  library.  "Mus- 
tache was  chasing  a  rat, "  he  said. 

"A  rat  that  opened  the  door  and  laughed  as  it  went 
out, "  observed  Orange  significantly. 

"I  saw  someone  examining  the  papers  on  the  desk 
yonder, "  added  Horn  pointing  to  the  gallery. 

Egmont  ran  thither;  the  papers  lay  littered  in  con- 
fusion. On  the  margin  of  one  he  found  written, 
"Inform  me  on  what  ship  Egmont  sails." 

Orange  stooped  and  lifting  from  the  floor  a  heavily 
scented  handkerchief  placed  it  on  the  desk. 

"Fool!"  muttered  Egmont;  then,  as  his  friends  re- 
garded him  questioningly :  "It  appears  that  my  secre- 
tary betrays  me.  I  will  leave  word  that  I  have  gone 
to  Gaesbeek  for  a  fortnight  with  my  family;  but 
instead  will  immediately  set  forth  to  Spain." 

"In  the  meantime  Granvelle  will  be  informed  that 
your  chief  business  there  is  to  effect  his  recall,"  re- 
marked Count  Horn. 

"And  I  shall  secure  it  before  word  from  him  can 
reach  the  King,"  replied  Egmont  confidently.  "Fare- 
well, my  friends,  an  hour  hence  I  shall  be  on  my  way!" 

They  had  scarcely  taken  their  leave  before  Egmont 
hastened  to  the  little  room  in  which  he  had  imprisoned 


A  Rat  i'  the  Arras  303 

Sabine.  A  sudden  draft  extinguished  the  taper  as  he 
entered.     "Sabine!"  he  cried,  "where  are  you?" 

She  leapt  laughing  and  sobbing  to  his  arms.  He 
folded  her  close.  "For  an  instant,  when  I  saw  that 
open  window,  I  thought  you  were  gone,  that  I  had 
sinned  past  forgiveness.  You  can  not  know,  Beloved, 
the  dangerous  path  I  tread,  with  traitors  on  every  hand. 
But  that  I  should  have  thought  you  one  is  monstrous." 

"I  well  know,  Lamoral,  that  in  your  heart  you  could 
not  doubt  me.  '  Love  beareth  all  things,  believeth  all 
things,  endureth  all  things.'" 

"Sabine!"  he  cried  in  terror,  "you  have  been  reading 
the  Bible?" 

"Yes,  Lamoral,  Father  Xavier  gave  me  the  book, 
a  French  translation  from  the  Cardinal's  library.  His 
hat  was  on  the  book-plate." 

"Is  Father  Xavier  intimate  with  Granvelle?" 

"No,  he  was  much  surprised  when  the  Spanish  lady 
brought  it." 

"Felicidad  again!"  exclaimed  Egmont.  "You  must 
burn  the  book,  as  you  would  a  poisoned  garment. 
Our  enemies  would  infect  us  with  heresy!" 

IV 
THE  RAT'S  REVENGE 

Egmont  was  not  over-sanguine  in  his  boast  to  his 
friends.    Upon  his  arrival  at  Madrid,  the  King  received 


304  Old  Belgium 

him  with  signal  courtesy,  showing  him  the  Escurial, 
built  in  honour  of  the  victory  of  St.  Quentin,  flattering 
him  with  festivals  and  loading  him  with  gifts.  Philip, 
moreover,  gave  his  assurance  that  the  abuses  of  the 
Inquisition  would  speedily  be  abated ;  he  was  surprised 
beyond  measure  to  learn  that  Granvelle  was  using  the 
Holy  Office  as  a  means  to  extort  money,  and  dispatched 
a  letter  to  the  Cardinal  demanding  his  immediate 
resignation. 

Grateful  and  radiant  Egmont  bade  his  sovereign 
farewell.  As  he  drove  to  the  ship  which  was  to  carry 
him  to  Belgium,  he  passed  the  coach  of  the  Duke  of 
Alva.  Framed  in  its  window  Egmont  caught  a  fleeting 
glimpse  of  a  face  whose  eyes  challenged  his  own  with  an 
expression  of  triumphant  hatred. 

He  had  reckoned  without  Felicidad. 

She  brought  Philip  a  letter  from  the  Cardinal,  which 
he  had  not  dared  entrust  to  the  post,  in  which  he  in- 
formed the  King  that  Egmont  was  conspiring  to  make 
Maximilian  of  Bohemia  Governor  of  Belgium.  It  was 
a  false  charge,  but  one  calculated  to  discredit  Egmont 
in  the  eyes  of  the  suspicious  Philip.  He  had  recalled 
Granvelle  because  he  permitted  Protestants  to  purchase 
their  lives,  for  Philip  coveted  not  the  wealth  of  the 
heretics  alone,  but  relentlessly  sought  their  extermi- 
nation. To  this  end  he  sent  the  relentless  Alva  to 
supplant  the  perfidious  Granvelle;  an  uprising  which 
presently  took  place,  giving  him  a  pretext  for  this  action. 


Philip  II.  of  Spain 

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A  Rat  i'  the  Arras  305 

Brederode  had  established  his  league  of  the  Gueux 
(The  Beggars,  thus  dubbed  in  derision  by  the  royalists). 
This  motley  company  waited  upon  Margaret  of  Parma 
and  extorted  her  consent  to  the  suspension  of  the  Edicts ; 
which  consent  she  well  knew  Philip  would  nullify. 

In  mad  delight  the  mob  marched  triumphantly 
through  Brussels  singing  a  rollicking  ballad. 

LES  GUEUX 

Chevaliers  Brabantian,  gentlemen  adventurers, 
Soldiers  of  misfortune,  what  gallant  blades  are  we! 
Weary  of  the  platitudes  of  moralists  and  censurers, 
Amorous  and  shameless  as  cadets  of  Gascony. 
Unfrocked  monks    and    'prentice-lads    absconding    from 

indenturers, 
Calvinist  and  Romanist,  Lutheran  and  Jew, 

Men  of  every  rank  and  station, 

Men  of  every  creed  and  nation, 

Men  of  doubtful  reputation, 
Highwayman  and  vagabond  and  sons  of  nobles  too. 

Children  of  the  underlands,  gentleman  adventurers 
Bristling  of  mustache  and  swaggering  of  gait, 

Welded  in  a  band  together 

Decked  our  hats  with  cock'rel's  feather. 

Brederode,  our  leader,  hath  a  soul  for  any  fate. 
Gutter-rats  and  beggar  brats,  a  swarm  of  reckless  venturers 
Iconoclast  and  Huguenot,  a  wild  and  motley  train. 

Through  the  land  with  quick  ignition 

Spreading  flame  of  hot  sedition, 

Death  to  Philip's  Inquisition, 
Torture  to  the  torturer,  the  tyrant  King  of  Spain ! 


306  Old  Belgium 

This  demonstration  was  quickly  followed  by  a  dis- 
organized eruption  of  the  unruly  element  in  Antwerp, 
who  made  religious  reform  an  excuse  for  rioting.  Before 
the  door  of  the  great  cathedral,  displaying  her  scanty 
stock  of  wax  tapers  and  votive  offerings,  ragged  and 
wizened  by  years  of  exposure,  sat  a  doddering  old 
crone.  A  group  of  the  Gueux,  shouting  "Long  live 
the  Beggars!"  approached  the  ancient  dame,  bantering 
her  with  ribald  jests  and  scoffing  at  her  sacred  commodi- 
ties. Enraged  by  their  gibes,  the  aged  huckstress 
retorted  with  all  manner  of  imprecations.  Grasping 
a  besom  from  the  hand  of  a  street-cleaner  she  laid  about 
her  in  all  directions.  But  the  "Beggars"  rushed  upon 
her  in  a  drove,  overpowered  her,  and  destroyed  her 
store  of  consecrated  wares. 

That  evening  a  mob  assembled  at  an  early  hour  in 
front  of  the  cathedral.  After  an  ineffectual  attempt  to 
rescue  the  most  precious  possessions,  the  wardens  and 
treasurers  fled  precipitately,  leaving  the  richest  and 
greatest  cathedral  of  Northern  Europe  to  its  fate. 

In  they  poured,  a  howling,  shrieking  band,  bent  on 
destruction  and  sacrilege.  They  rushed  upon  the  image 
of  the  Virgin,  tore  off  its  bejewelled  vestments,  and 
plunged  their  daggers  into  its  body,  which  they  broke 
into  a  thousand  fragments.  Armed  with  bludgeons, 
axes,  and  sledge  hammers  and  with  ropes  and  pulleys, 
they  hurled  statues  from  niches,  pictures  from  the  walls, 
and  shivered   the  incomparable  windows  of  painted 


A  Rat  i'  the  Arras  307 

glass.  Mad  with  lust  of  destruction,  they  flew  upon 
the  statue  of  Christ,  which  adorned  the  altar.  This 
they  wrenched  from  its  place  and  destroyed,  leaving 
the  statues  of  the  two  thieves  still  on  high  in  blasphe- 
mous irony.  Forcing  open  the  chests  of  treasure  the 
rabble  donned  the  ecclesiastical  vestments,  and  pouring 
the  sacramental  wine  into  the  golden  chalices  drank 
"Long  life  to  the  Beggars!" 

Philip's  rage,  at  hearing  of  the  work  of  the  iconoclasts, 
burst  all  bounds.  Margaret  of  Parma  had  written  her 
brother  that  she  felt  herself  incapable  of  resisting  a 
rebellion.  The  King  at  once  decided  to  replace  her  by 
Alva  and  to  buttress  his  unlimited  power  by  the  support 
of  the  Spanish  army. 

News  of  his  immediate  coming  preceded  him  and 
Orange  at  once  resigned  his  offices  and  prepared  to 
leave  the  country,  endeavouring  with  every  argument 
in  his  power  to  induce  Egmont  to  accompany  him. 

"My  love  for  you,"  he  said,  "has  taken  root  too 
deeply  in  my  heart  to  permit  me  to  seek  my  own  safety 
without  one  last  warning.  I  know  absolutely  that  Alva 
is  in  possession  of  our  death  warrants." 

Egmont  was  deaf  to  his  entreaties.  "I  have  taken 
my  stand,"  he  reiterated.  "I  will  not  desert  my 
people.  My  conscience  is  clean.  The  King  knows 
my  devotion  to  him.     I  have  no  fear." 

Egmont  had  other  warnings.  Father  Xavier  came 
to  him  in  great  trouble.     "The  seal  of  confession  is  on 


308  Old  Belgium 

my  lips,"  he  said,  "but  I  must  break  it,  or  be  partner 
in  the  crime  of  murder.  A  wretch,  would  that  I  might 
say  a  penitent,  has  confessed  to  me  that  she  bore  to 
Philip  a  lying  charge  of  treason  concerning  you  for 
which  you  are  soon  to  be  indicted.  When  I  refused 
her  absolution  unless  she  expiated  her  crime  by  confes- 
sion to  you  she  threatened  to  inform  the  Holy  Office 
that  I  was  a  heretic  reading  openly  the  Scriptures  in  the 
vulgar  tongue. 

"When  I  protested  that  the  book  was  sent  me  by 
the  Cardinal,  she  declared  that  if  I  produced  it  she 
would  testify  the  book-plate  was  forged.  On  her  oath 
that  she  would  never  prefer  that  charge,  I  gave  her 
the  outward  sign  of  absolution  enjoining  her  to  re- 
pentance." 

"She  shall  never  know  that  you  have  told  me,"  said 
Egmont,  "for  I  shall  remain  at  my  post." 

The  blow  fell  suddenly.  The  details  of  the  treacher- 
ous arrest  and  mock  trial  of  Counts  Egmont  and  Horn 
are  too  well  known  for  recapitulation  here.  Egmont 
appealed  confidently  to  the  King,  nor  through  the  nine 
months  of  his  imprisonment  did  he  lose  faith  in  his 
murderer.  Sabine  used  every  means  in  her  power,  even 
throwing  herself  on  her  knees  before  the  ruthless  Alva. 
Egmont's  friends  vainly  attempted  his  rescue.  It  was 
the  hour  of  the  Powers  of  Darkness. 

On  the  night  preceding  Egmont's  execution,  a  little 
procession  consisting  of  Father  Xavier  with  the  cross, 


"  Father  Xavier  learns  from  Felicidad  the  plot  to  behead  Egmont " 


A  Startling  Confession 

By  Vibert 
Metropolitan  Museum  of  Art,  New  York 


"  Relentless  Alva  " 

From  Album  Historique  de  la  Ddgique,  by  H.  Van  der  Linden  and  H.  Obreen 
Reproduced  by  permission  of  G.  Van  Oest  &  Company 


A  Rat  i'  the  Arras  309 

an  acolyte  tinkling  his  tiny  bell,  and  the  Bishop  of 
Ypres  bearing  the  sacrament  entered  the  Broodhuis.  As 
the  bodeful  chiming  caught  his  ear  Egmont  sank  upon 
his  knees  murmuring  the  prayer  for  a  passing  soul. 

Bolts  were  harshly  drawn;  the  Bishop,  priest,  and 
little  acolyte  entered.  Egmont  sprang  forward. 
"Joconde!"  he  cried. 

Tears  welled  in  the  Bishop's  eyes.  "  It  is  a  last  grace, 
Monseigneur,  that  thou  mayest  bid  thy  son  farewell." 

Kneeling  beside  his  child  Egmont  clasped  him  pas- 
sionately to  his  heart. 

"Little  Father,  Little  Father!"  besought  the  boy, 
"Don't  go  away.  We  want  you  so,  Mamma  Sabine 
and  I.     Come  to  Gaesbeek,  Little  Father." 

"Not  now,  darling,  perhaps  by  and  by";  and  Eg- 
mont' s  eyes  questioned  the  Bishop,  while  his  lips 
articulated  the  words,  "Is  there  then  no  hope?" 

The  prelate  shook  his  head  despairingly. 

"Joconde,"  exclaimed  Egmont,  after  a  moment's 
silence,  "you  and  mamma  shall  come  to  me.  I  must 
go  far  away." 

"Farther  than  Spain,  Little  Father?" 

"Much  farther,  but  I  shall  build  for  you  a  beautiful 
chateau." 

"Prettier  than  Gaesbeek?" 

"More  beautiful.  Father  Xavier  will  tell  you  all 
about  it.  You  must  be  a  good  boy,  Joconde,  and  take 
care  of  mamma," 


310  Old  Belgium 

"Yes,  Little  Father." 

"And  tell  her  for  me — remember  this  very  carefully 
— 'Love  endureth  all  things.'  Repeat  it  after  me, 
darling. 

"Love  'dureth,"  lisped  Joconde. 

"That  sufficeth.  Tell  mamma  to  endure,  for  your 
sake." 

The  child  nodded  wearily.  "I  so  sleepy,"  he 
murmured. 

"Bear  him  to  his  mother,  Xavier,"  said  Egmont. 

"Nay  let  him  slumber  on  the  pallet,"  entreated  the 
good  priest.  "I  would  fain  wait  to  receive  thy  final 
commands." 

Joconde  slept  peacefully  while  the  Bishop  listened  to 
Egmont's  confession,  gave  him  absolution,  and  ad- 
ministered the  sacrament.  Departing  for  the  ministra- 
tion of  the  same  rites  to  Count  Horn,  the  Bishop  said 
to  the  gaoler,  "Permit  this  priest  and  the  child  to 
remain  a  half -hour  longer." 

He  had  scarcely  crossed  the  threshold  when  Father 
Xavier  whispered:  " Monseigneur,  I  wear  two  cas- 
socks.    Take  one,  robe  thyself  therein,  and  escape." 

1 '  And  abandon  you  ? ' ' 

"Nay,  I  will  go  forth  when  they  change  guard. 
Follow  the  rue  Tete  d'Or  to  the  church  of  Notre  Dame 
de  Bon  Secours.  There  you  will  find  a  cavalier  in 
waiting  with  the  swiftest  horse  in  Brussels,  to  take  you 
across  the  border  to  the  Prince  of  Orange." 


A  Rat  i'  the  Arras  311 

"This  is  one  of  the  wild  schemes  of  Brederode?" 

"No,  Monseigneur,  the  wretched  woman  of  whose 
confession  I  told  thee  hath  indeed  repented  of  her 
appalling  crime.  She  craveth  thy  forgiveness,  and 
offereth  thee  this  means  of  deliverance." 

' '  Felicidad ! ' '  murmured  Egmont .  ' '  I  will  not  accept 
safety  at  her  hands,  or  leave  my  wife  and  children  in 
the  hands  of  my  foes.  To  whatever  fate  the  King  sends 
me  I  am  resigned." 

"Put  not  thy  trust  in  princes,  but  this  woman  thou 
mayest  now  trust.  Thou  wilt  recognize  her  in  the 
guise  of  the  cavalier.     She  longeth  to  make  reparation. ' ' 

"Tell  her  she  hath  my  forgiveness,  but  I  can  not 
flee." 

At  that  instant  the  gaoler  appeared.  "Time  is  up ! " 
he  shouted.  "The  priest  and  child  must  go."  Egmont 
embraced  Joconde  passionately.  "What  were  you  to 
say  to  mamma?"  he  questioned. 

"Love  'dureth, "  murmured  the  child  sleepily. 
"Little  Father  said — Love  'dureth." 

A  murky,  saffron  haze  shrouded  the  great  square  of 
Brussels  in  ominous  gloom.  Through  the  drifting 
mist  the  lace-like  flhche  of  the  mediaeval  H6tel-de-Ville 
lifted  its  intricate  tracery  of  spire  and  pinnacle.  Oppo- 
site loomed  the  Oriental  facade  of  the  ancient  Brood- 
huis,  grotesque  and  sinister  in  the  haze.  Huddled 
about  those  structures  clustered  the  guild-houses  whose 


312  Old  Belgium 

quaint  gables  crowded  one  another  in  an  effort  to 
secure  the  foremost  place  at  the  spectacle. 

Around  a  scaffold,  in  the  centre  of  the  square,  three 
thousand  Spanish  troopers  were  drawn  up  in  battle 
array.  On  the  scaffold  which  was  covered  with  black 
fustian  had  been  placed  two  black  velvet  cushions,  two 
iron  spikes,  and  a  table  on  which  was  a  small  silver 
crucifix. 

Beneath,  red  rod  in  hand,  motionless  as  a  statue, 
sat  on  horseback  the  provost  marshal.  Behind  the 
Spanish  soldiery  a  vast  assemblage  of  the  populace 
filled  the  square;  and  scores  of  nobles  and  burghers 
looked  down  from  the  ornate  casements  and  picturesque 
balconies  of  the  surrounding  houses. 

The  great  clock  struck  an  hour  before  noon  and  a 
squadron  of  Spanish  foot  led  Egmont  forth  from  the 
prison.  Walking  with  steady  step,  followed  by  the 
guard,  the  Bishop  at  his  side,  he  approached  the  scaffold. 
He  was  reading  the  Sixty-first  Psalm. 

"Hear   my  cry,  O  God;  attend  unto  my  prayer." 

A  hush  fell  upon  all  the  multitude  as  they  listened 
to  this  last  prayer. 

"Thou  wilt  prolong  the  King's  life,"  he  read,  "and 
his  years  as  many  generations.  He  shall  abide  before 
God  forever;  0  prepare  mercy  and  truth,  which  may 
preserve  him." 

A  low  wail  ran  over  the  populace  as  he  ascended  the 
scaffold. 


A  Rat  i'  the  Arras  313 

"Down  with  the  traitor!"  cried  one,  but  his  words 
were  drowned  in  a  storm  of  imprecations. 

"Silence,  dog,"  said  another.  "He  goes  to  pay  the 
forfeit.     Let  him  be  at  peace!" 

Egmont  crossed  the  scaffold  and,  approaching  the 
marshal,  demanded  if  his  sentence  were  irrevocable. 

The  officer  shrugged  and  muttered  affirmatively. 

Egmont's  face  furrowed  for  a  moment  but,  com- 
manding himself,  he  threw  aside  his  black,  gold- 
embroidered  mantle,  exposing  his  tabard  of  red 
damask. 

He  then  withdrew  the  order  of  the  Golden  Fleece 
from  his  shoulder,  and  knelt  by  the  side  of  the  Bishop, 
murmuring  the  Lord's  Prayer;  after  which,  kissing  the 
crucifix  he  received  the  blessing  of  the  prelate.  Draw- 
ing a  cap  over  his  eyes  he  cried :  "  Lord,  into  thy  hands 
I  commit  my  spirit,"  as  the  headsman  with  a  single 
stroke  let  fall  his  fatal  axe. 

Tears  blinded  the  eyes  of  even  the  Spanish  soldiers, 
as  they  witnessed  the  doom  of  the  flower  of  Flemish 
chivalry. J 

1  The  authors  acknowledge  their  indebtedness  as  all,  "who  come 
after  the  King,"  must  necessarily  do  to  The  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic 
by  John  Lothrop  Motley. 

Even  as  a  sketch  this  story  would  be  incomplete  without  reproducing 
literally  that  masterpiece  of  Christian  forgiveness — Egmont's  farewell 
letter  to  his  King. 
"Sire: 

"I  have  learned  this  evening  the  sentence  which  your  Majesty  has  been 
pleased  to  pronounce  upon  me.     Although  I  have  never  had  a  thought, 


314  Old  Belgium 

and  believe  myself  never  to  have  done  a  deed,  which  could  tend  to  the 
prejudice  of  your  Majesty's  person  or  service,  or  to  the  detriment  of  our 
true,  ancient,  and  Catholic  religion,  nevertheless  I  take  patience  to  bear 
that  which  it  has  pleased  the  good  God  to  send.  If  during  these 
troubles  in  the  Netherlands,  I  have  done  or  permitted  aught  which  had  a 
different  appearance,  it  has  been  with  the  true  and  good  intent  to  serve 
God  and  your  Majesty.  Therefore,  I  pray  your  Majesty  to  forgive  me, 
and  to  have  compassion  on  my  poor  wife,  my  children,  and  my  servants; 
having  regard  to  my  past  services.  In  which  hope  I  now  commend  my- 
self to  the  mercy  of  God. 

"From  Brussels. 
"Ready  to  die,  this  5th  June,  1568.   Your  Majesty's  very  humble  and 
loyal  vassal  and  servant, 

"  Lamoral  d'Egmont." 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE    LOST    TAPESTRY 

TWO    ADVENTURES    OF    DETECTIVE    VIDOCQ1 

I 

THE  CARDINAL'S  ALB 

FT  was  in  the  summer  of  1670  that  I,  a  cadet  of  the 
*  old  family  of  Vidocq,  was  pleasantly  surprised  by 
receiving  a  letter  from  the  great  Minister  Colbert, 
requesting  me  to  confer  with  him,  so  the  summons  read, 
"on  a  matter  in  which  I  take  much  interest  and  which, 
should  you  bring  it  to  a  satisfactory  conclusion,  may 
prove  of  profit  to  yourself." 

I  hastened  to  Versailles  at  the  time  appointed,  was 
admitted  at  once,  but,  to  my  surprise  found  a  lady 
seated  familiarly  at  the  Minister's  writing-table.  They 
were  looking  over  a  portfolio  of  drawings,  as  it  seemed 
to  me  plans  of  geometrical  fortresses  such  as  Vauban  was 
then  building  on  our  new  northern  frontier,  star-shaped 
bastions,  with  re-entrant  angles,  scarp,  and  counter- 
scarp. 

'Possibly  an  ancestor  of  Francois  Eugene  Vidocq,  the  Prince  of 
Detectives  a  century  later. 

315 


316  Old  Belgium 

"So,"  I  thought,  "this  lady  is  a  spy,  who  is  furnish- 
ing Colbert  with  maps  of  Belgian  citadels."  This  was  a 
service  for  which  I  had  no  stomach,  and  when  my 
patron  greeted  me  with:  "Ah!  Vidocq,  I  have  need  of 
your  assistance  in  several  matters  of  delicacy," — I 
blurted  forth  an  assurance  that  I  was  ready  to  serve  him 
in  any  enterprise  not  dishonourable. 

His  face  darkened.  "That  was  scarcely  a  politic 
remark,"  he  said,  "but  we  will  let  it  pass."  Then, 
turning  to  the  lady,  he  continued:  "This,  Madame 
Guilbert,  is  the  young  man  of  whom  I  was  speaking. 
He  has  lived  in  Flanders  and  speaks  Flemish  fluently. 
He  is  the  very  one  for  our  purpose." 

Madame  Guilbert  smiled.  ' '  The  service  is  very  easy, ' ' 
she  said.  "It  is  only  to  collect  secretly  such  designs  as 
these  which  will  be  very  useful  to  France." 

"Am  I  right  in  supposing  the  mission  one  of  danger?" 
I  asked. 

"Not  of  danger,  though  possibly  of  some  incon- 
venience— should  your  purpose  be  divined,"  replied 
Madame  Guilbert. 

"So,"  I  retorted,  "it  is  only  inconvenient  to  be 
hanged  as  a  spy,  as  I  certainly  should  be  if  caught 
with  plans  like  those  upon  my  person." 

Colbert  burst  into  a  loud  laugh.  "These  are  not 
plans  of  forts  but  designs  for  the  making  of  lace,"  he 
said.  "Madame  Guilbert  is  the  head  of  the  Royal 
Manufactory  which  his  Majesty  has  just  founded  in 


H^J^k^SfflRSB 

^M^    •"> 

^^i^^^^^^^^J^H 

•••  ^^^^W 

£&£<£23fln~ 

I                                          •  *  ^^KfFWj 

sm-ssw 

*«£ 

M****"*"^-. 

ft*            V 

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:   : 

I«3 

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M  I 

•S3  £ 

•a  2 

■y  c 

C  cs 


^   a, 

10 

3    O 
O 


The  Lost  Tapestry  317 

the  Chateau  of  l'Ouray  at  Alencon,  which  the  King 
desires  so  heartily  to  encourage  that  he  has  forbidden 
the  importation  of  Mechlin  and  other  Flemish  laces. 
Nevertheless,  so  great  is  the  admiration  for  the  laces  of 
Flanders  that  in  spite  of  the  penalty  of  confiscation  and 
imprisonment  they  are  constantly  smuggled  over  the 
border.  I  have  decreed  that  all  smuggled  laces  shall 
be  submitted  to  Madame,  and  those  she  wishes  to  use 
as  patterns  sent  to  Ouray.  It  is  my  desire  that  you  act 
as  my  agent,  in  discovering  a  wonderful  alb  ordered  by 
a  French  prince  of  the  Church  some  five  years  since, 
which  should  about  this  time  be  completed,  though  no 
whisper  has  been  heard  of  its  whereabouts.  Madame 
has,  however,  reason  to  believe  that  an  attempt  will  be 
made  to  get  it  across  the  border  from  the  vicinity  of 
Courtrai." 

The  problem  pleased  me.  Madame  Guilbert  advised 
my  assuming  the  guise  of  a  pedlar,  but  I  was  left 
entirely  to  my  own  devices  in  carrying  out  my  cam- 
paign. Madame  then  took  her  leave  and  I  was  about 
to  follow  her  example  but  Colbert  detained  me  by  a 
gesture. 

"This  is  not  all,"  he  said.  "Belgium  has  led  us  too 
long  in  all  the  arts,  painting,  goldsmithery,  and  especi- 
ally in  the  weaving  of  tapestries.  Le  Grand  Monarque 
has  determined  that  France  shall  no  longer  suffer  this 
reproach.  He  took  Arras,  but  the  tapestry  weavers 
removed   their   industry   to   Oudenaarde.     We   have 


318  Old  Belgium 

established  the  manufactory  of  the  Gobelins,  but  find 
it  difficult  to  tempt  Flemish  workmen  to  come  to  us. 
Especially  is  there  a  dearth  of  designs  from  the  brush 
of  masters  in  art  such  as  Rubens. 

"  I  am  told  that  in  the  latter  years  of  his  life  he  made 
cartoons  for  tapestries  which  were  never  executed. 
One  in  especial — a  Verdure,  called  The  Garden  of 
Love,  I  hope  you  can  discover  and  purchase.  The 
central  figure  is  Marie  de  Medicis  whom  he  painted  so 
admirably  when  he  was  in  France." 

"And  this  cartoon  is " 

"Is  lost,  but  you  will  find  it." 

1 '  Inevitably.     And  is  this  all  Monseigneur  ? ' ' 

"Not  quite.  The  name  of  Marie  de  Medicis  reminds 
me  that  she  visited  Rubens  and  is  said  to  have  left  very 
valuable  jewels  with  him  as  security  for  moneys  which 
he  loaned  her.  At  any  rate  this  much  is  certain,  when 
she  decamped  in  disgrace  from  France  she  carried  with 
her  crown  jewels  to  which  she  had  no  right,  a  parure  of 
sapphires  and  diamonds.  If  you  should  happen  to  run 
across  that " 

I  smiled  ironically.  "And  if  I  find  neither  the  Card- 
inal's Alb,  nor  the  Lost  Tapestry,  nor  yet  the  Queen's 
jewels  I  shall  doubtless  enjoy  some  very  pretty  ad- 
ventures." 

"My  young  gentleman,"  Colbert  replied,  "I  have 
not  engaged  your  services  for  the  purpose  of  regaling 
you  with  adventures.    You  will  return  with  the  design 


The  Lost  Tapestry  319 

for  the  tapestry,  with  the  alb,  and  the  jewels,  or  not 
at  all." 

I  bowed  profoundly.  "I  shall  return,  Monseigneur, 
and  with  all  three,"  I  replied  confidently. 

Carrying  my  pedlar's  pack  I  set  out  for  the  Belgian 
frontier  on  the  highway  from  Lille  to  Courtrai,  for  it 
was  in  this  vicinity  that  the  lace  smuggling  was  usually 
effected.  I  observed  the  farmhouses  keenly  as  I 
proceeded.  Each  and  all  had  an  innocent  aspect, 
standing  free  from  cover  of  orchard  or  wood  while  the 
country  was  flat  and  open.  Hardly  a  place  for  under- 
hand business,  for  any  traveller  was  conspicuous  for 
miles.  The  glare  of  the  noonday  sun  had  become  very 
oppressive  and  I  sat  down  to  rest  in  a  strip  of  shade 
beneath  a  hedge  surrounding  a  red  windmill.  My  long 
tramp  had  made  me  drowsy  and  I  was  falling  asleep 
when  a  furious  barking  on  the  other  side  of  the  hedge 
awakened  me.  Peering  through  a  gap  I  saw  a  peasant 
tapping  at  a  window  of  the  little  house,  at  the  side  of  the 
mill,  and  presently  a  woman  came  out,  looked  about  in  a 
furtive  way,  and  gave  the  man  money.  It  was  not  the 
act  of  charity,  for  ten  louis  d'or  dropped  one  by  one  into 
his  hand.  Then  she  disappeared  and  returned  leading  a 
black  poodle,  shaven  en  lion,  by  a  strong  leash. 

The  dog  resisted  frantically,  but  the  man  dragged  it 
howling  dismally,  in  the  direction  of  the  little  customs 
station.  I  followed,  wondering  at  the  transaction;  the 
man  had  brought  the  woman  nothing,  and  was  taking 


320  Old  Belgium 

away  a  valuable  dog,  for  which  he  had  not  paid,  on  the 
contrary  it  was  the  woman  who  had  given  him  money. 
The  customs'  official  was  chatting  with  him  as  I 
approached.  "You  have  bought  another  dog,"  he 
remarked.  "Yes,  I  sell  him  in  Courtrai,"  replied  the 
man.  "It  is  a  French  poodle  and  does  not  wish  to 
come.  I  am  having  the  trouble  of  the  Evil  One  to 
make  him  change  his  country." 

"It  was  so  with  the  one  you  bought  last,"  replied 
the  officer.  ' '  He  was  as  like  this  as  two  peas,  and  as  fat. 
One  sees  well  that  they  are  pampered  pieces  of  useless- 
ness,  not  trained  like  your  Belgian  dogs  to  take  the 
milk  cans  to  market." 

Stepping  within  the  octroi  I  endeavoured  to  extract 
some  information  from  the  officer.  He  was  confident 
there  had  been  no  smuggling  recently. 

"How  about  the  man  who  has  just  passed  by?"  I 
asked. 

"An  honest,  simple  peasant.  We  had  another  officer 
here  who  suspected  him  absurdly  and  he  was  twice 
examined,  stripped  to  the  skin  and  his  clothing  searched. 
Nothing!  The  good  man  was  much  grieved  at  the 
indignity.     We  saw  nothing  of  him  for  a  long  time. ' ' 

I  trudged  on  my  way,  the  sun  had  set  when  I  reached 
the  first  cottage  beyond  the  frontier.  I  was  hungry 
and  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  might  obtain  supper 
within. 

A  pretty,  rosy-cheeked  girl  answered  my  summons. 


The  Lost  Tapestry  321 

"But  certainly  Monsieur  can  have  an  omelette  and 
there  is  soup  upon  the  fire." 

While  she  placed  it  upon  the  table  the  man  whom  I 
had  noticed  entered  and  the  girl  explained  my  presence. 
I  had  intended  after  a  short  rest  to  proceed,  but,  as  the 
girl  bent  over  me  to  serve  the  omelette  one  of  the 
lappets  of  her  cap  lay  for  an  instant  upon  my  sleeve  and 
I  noted  that  it  was  of  fine  Mechlin  lace.  This  was  not 
such  an  extraordinary  circumstance,  for  I  knew  that 
many  of  the  peasants  in  the  neighbourhood  had  in- 
herited caps  that  had  been  heirlooms  for  many  genera- 
tions, still  if  I  could  talk  with  her  alone  I  might  find 
some  helpful  clue.  A  glance  at  her  attractive  face 
further  strengthened  my  half-formed  resolution,  and 
feigning  a  galled  foot  I  asked  if  I  could  remain  over 
night. 

The  girl  did  not  reply  but  regarded  her  father  with  a 
doubtful  expression,  while  I  displayed  a  silver  guilder 
in  as  engaging  a  manner  as  possible. 

"Lodge  him  in  the  front  loft,"  he  said  to  her  in 
Flemish,  which  he  had  not  as  yet  ascertained  that  I 
understood.     "He  will  hear  nothing." 

The  girl  gave  me  a  quick  apprehensive  glance;  I  had 
greeted  her  in  Flemish  on  entering  and,  though  I  strove 
to  make  my  face  a  blank,  she  was  convinced  that  I  had 
understood.  To  cover  the  somewhat  awkward  silence 
which  followed  I  opened  my  pack  and  displayed  the 
few  wares  which  I  had  brought. 


322  Old  Belgium 

The  man  looked  at  them  scornfully.  "Monsieur 
will  never  get  back  his  money  from  that  outfit.  Possibly 
he  is  carrying  on  at  the  same  time  some  other  and  more 
lucrative  business." 

"None  other, "  I  replied,  "though  I  would  like  to  fill 
my  pack  with  Flemish  wares  to  sell  in  France  upon  my 
return." 

"Wares,  what  wares?"  the  girl  asked  quickly. 

"Lace,  for  instance,"  I  replied  carelessly;  "I  would 
not  mind  purchasing  the  cap  you  wear,  if  it  is  not  an 
heirloom." 

"I  made  it  myself,"  she  replied,  "the  sisters  taught 
me  when  I  was  in  the  convent  in  Courtrai." 

"It  is  not  for  sale,"  the  man  interrupted  surlily, 
"besides,  it  would  be  seized  at  the  douane." 

"And  nevertheless,"  I  replied,  "Mechlin  lace  in  some 
mysterious  way  finds  its  way  to  us.  If  I  should  succeed 
in  securing  some,  would  you,  Mademoiselle,  on  my  re- 
turn make  me  a  pie  in  which  to  conceal  it?" 

"My  faith  no,"  shouted  the  man,  "we  are  honest 
people;  we  have  nothing  to  do  with  smugglers.  We 
keep  early  hours,  Monsieur,  I  have  taken  a  long  tramp 
and  am  weary.  Babette  will  show  you  to  your  room, 
and  so,  good  night." 

Frustrating  with  a  rousing  slap  my  attempt  to 
bestow  upon  her  a  farewell  kiss,  Babette  hurried  away, 
and  vowing  to  have  better  luck  upon  the  morrow  I 
soon  found  consolation  in  sleep. 


The  Lost  Tapestry  323 

I  was  awakened  possibly  an  hour  later  by  the  arrival 
of  a  guest.  A  ray  of  light  betrayed  a  knot-hole  in  the 
floor  and  applying  my  eye  to  it  I  saw  a  white-haired 
man  seated  at  the  table  before  a  pile  of  gold,  which  he 
was  bestowing  in  a  canvas  bag.  "Strange, "  thought  I, 
"that  he  should  display  such  an  amount  of  money 
before  these  people." 

After  a  time,  as  though  in  justification  of  my  appre- 
hension, I  heard  our  host  say:  "If  you  think  the  French 
pedlar  is  asleep,  I  will  kill  him." 

My  flesh  crept  with  horror  and  I  silently  prepared  to 
sell  my  life  dearly.  Minutes  dragged  themselves  by, 
but  no  one  entered  my  room  and  there  was  no  sound 
except  the  howling  of  dogs.  Suddenly  a  sharp  cry  of 
agony,  inarticulate,  almost  bestial,  ending  in  gurgling 
sobs  rang  through  the  night.  They  had  murdered  that 
too-trusting  old  man! 

Then  I  heard  my  host's  voice  in  the  garden : ' '  Babette, 
come  hold  the  candle  while  I  bury  the  body.  Bring,  too, 
a  pail  of  water  to  wash  away  the  blood,  or  that  cursed 
pedlar  will  suspect." 

I  waited  an  hour  or  more,  then,  with  pedlar's  pack 
in  one  hand  and  my  shoes  in  the  other,  I  cautiously 
descended  the  ladder.  The  dawn  threw  a  square  of 
white  upon  the  floor  from  the  curtainless  window.  The 
ladder  creaked  frightfully,  and  suddenly  my  ears  were 
assailed  by  another  sound  which  took  from  me  the 
power  of  motion,  it  was  only  a  regular  peaceful  snoring, 


324  Old  Belgium 

someone  was  asleep  upon  the  couch  in  the  chimney 
corner — the  old  man  whom  I  had  seen  the  night  before 
and  believed  had  been  murdered. 

I  could  not  credit  my  eyes  and  tiptoed  nearer  to  make 
sure.  As  I  bent  over  him  he  suddenly  awaked,  and, 
taking  me  for  a  thief  cried  out  in  terror.  A  door  opened 
and  Babette  appeared,  and  in  a  sudden  revulsion  of 
feeling  I  laughed  outright.  ' '  He  was  going  to  shoot  me, ' ' 
quavered  the  old  man.  "See,  he  is  still  holding  his 
blunderbusses." 

"They  are  shoes,"  I  shrieked  between  my  fits  of 
laughing  and  then,  sobering,  I  dropped  them  and 
catching  Babette' s  arm  exclaimed :  ' '  Did  I  then  dream 
that  you  held  a  candle  while  your  father  dug  a  grave  ?  " 

"But  yes,  Monsieur,  I  held  the  candle  indeed  and  my 
father  dug  the  grave,  but  it  was  for  our  dog  that  has 
been  making  trouble  for  us  in  the  killing  of  our  neigh- 
bours' fowls.  If  Monsieur  will  regard  the  granary  out- 
side he  will  perceive  Wolf's  skin,  but  freshly  flayed, 
nailed  to  the  door." 

It  was  indeed  as  she  had  said.  I  did  not  return  to 
my  loft  but  shared  the  old  man's  coffee.  He  regarded 
me  distrustfully,  however;  it  was  plain  that  he  was 
not  entirely  reassured  as  to  my  good  intentions  and 
he  hurried  briskly  away  as  soon  as  he  had  eaten  his 
light  breakfast. 

Babette  took  up  her  lace-cushion  and  began  to  sing 
a  song  which  she  had  learned  at  the  convent. 


Bruges 

"  The  belfry  no  longer  displays  its  golden  dragon  " 


"  But  the  river  still  ripples  through  its  arched  bridges  " 

From  a  drawing  by  Albert  Chanler 


£ 


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The  Lost  Tapestry  325 

CHANSON    DE    DENTELLE 

Our  nimble  fingers  speed  the  bobbins  fleet, 
Threading,  in  endless  coils,  the  flaxen  strands, 
To  faery  frost-stars,  with  our  busy  hands; 
And,  while  we  twine,  we  sing  an  anthem  sweet, 
Speeding  the  blithesome  hours  on  winged  feet. 

Frail  gossamers  and  filmy  butterflies 
With  silver  dream-flowers  weft,  our  needle  plies, 
The  whiles  we  sing  to  Christ  an  anthem  sweet, 
Speeding  the  blithesome  hours  on  winged  feet. 

Wreathing,  within  the  convent  cloister  shade, 

A  coronal  of  flowers  that  never  fade ; 

And  while  we  twine,  we  sing  an  anthem  sweet 

To  Vierge  Marie  and  Anne,  the  saint  discreet, 

To  thee  we  pray,  our  patroness  benign, 

Bless  thou  the  craft  we  lay  before  thy  shrine! 

"You  will  be  quitting  us  today  I  suppose,"  she  said 
as  she  concluded  her  song. 

"I  shall  drop  in  upon  my  return,  and  since  I  am  in- 
terested in  lace  will  you  not  tell  me  where  I  may  find 
some  fine  examples  ?  " 

"The  finest  in  all  Belgium  is  at  the  Convent  of  the 
Sisters  of  St.  Jean  in  Bruges, "  she  replied.  ' '  They  have 
been  labouring  for  years  on  a  magnificent  piece,  a  copy 
of  the  famous  Bloody  Alb  made  for  Cardinal  Granville." 

"The  Bloody  Alb" — I  repeated.  I  do  not  under- 
stand." 


326  Old  Belgium 

"When  the  Cardinal  left  Belgium  it  was  so  hurriedly 
that  he  did  not  take  with  him  the  beautiful  alb  which  he 
had  commanded;  but  he  sent  word  to  the  sisters  that 
his  niece  would  bring  it.  But  on  the  day  that  Count 
Egmont  was  executed  the  guards  could  not  prevent  his 
friends  from  dipping  their  handkerchiefs  in  the  precious 
blood.  The  Cardinal's  niece  who  loved  Egmont  was 
among  these.  It  seems  she  blamed  Granville  for  his 
death,  for  she  stained  the  alb  with  her  bloody  handker- 
chief; and  marked  the  box  in  which  it  was  enclosed, 
'His  blood  is  upon  your  skirts!' 

"The  nuns  kept  the  design  and  have  executed  it 
again.  If  Monsieur  would  like  to  inspect  it  he  has  only 
to  go  to  Bruges." 

So  to  Bruges  like  a  trusting  fool  I  journeyed,  only  to 
find  that  the  Sisters  of  St.  Jean  had  never  made  lace 
but  devoted  themselves  to  the  nursing  of  the  sick. 
Furious  was  I  to  find  myself  so  befooled  by  a  maid  so 
demure,  and  I  swore  to  have  my  revenge  upon  her, 
which  later  I  effected,  as  those  who  have  patience  to 
follow  my  adventures  to  the  end  will  ascertain. 

Sister  Opportune  had  seen  the  alb,  which  was  being 
constructed  at  the  Convent  of  the  Visitation  at  Mechlin 
whence  she  had  recently  returned.  I  had  lost  nothing 
by  my  detour  as  a  full  fortnight  would  be  needed  to  com- 
plete the  work.  Moreover  she  had  learned  that  it  was  to 
be  sent  into  France  by  a  trusty  messenger  by  way  of 
Courtrai  and  Lille.     This  was  news  indeed.     Babette 


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The  Lost  Tapestry  327 

was  doubtless  the  intermediary.  I  would  return  in  time 
to  secure  the  alb. 

Meantime,  Sister  Opportune  suggested  that  I  should 
inspect  the  glory  of  her  hospital,  the  marvellous  chdsse 
of  St.  Ursula  which  Mary  of  Burgundy  had  donated  to 
her  order. 

On  the  way  to  the  hospital  I  had  paused  at  the 
cathedral  and  had  looked  with  something  like  com- 
passion upon  the  effigy  of  Mary  of  Burgundy.  The 
sweet-faced  girl  lies  upon  her  pompous  sarcophagus, 
her  thin  hands  placed  straitly  palm  to  palm  in  the 
attitude  of  prayer,  a  plaintive  smile  on  her  narrow  lips. 
Remembering  her  tumultuous  reign  which  changed  the 
merry  baby  face  of  Hugo  van  der  Goers'  portrait  to 
these  pinched  and  pitiful  features,  I  hoped  that  Sister 
Opportune  might  have  some  tale  to  tell  of  the  patroness 
of  her  convent. 

In  the  chapter  room,  on  a  rotary  pedestal,  stood  this 
famous  reliquary,  a  tiny  chapel  of  fretted  goldsmith 
work  decorated  by  Memling  with  episodes  in  the  life  of 
the  saint. 

"Who  was  the  model  for  this  exquisite  face?"  I 
asked,  and  Sister  Opportune,  serenely  garrulous,  told 
me  the  story:  How  Memling,  a  Burgundian  soldier, 
had  been  wounded  at  the  battle  of  Nancy  and  there- 
after was  "never  good  for  anything  but  just  to  paint." 
The  good  sisters  had  nursed  him  back  to  life  and  in 
gratitude  for  their  care  he  had  painted  this  history 


328  Old  Belgium 

of  their  favourite  saint,  and  her  eleven  thousand 
virgins. 

"It  was  in  this  cloister,"  said  Sister  Opportune,  that 
he  set  up  his  easel,  and  Sister  Simplicity  a  lovely  novice, 
impersonated  the  sainted  Ursule." 

"And  Memling  doubtless  made  love  to  her  while  he 
painted,"  I  interjected. 

"Surely,  Monsieur,  surely,"  Sister  Opportune  replied, 
folding  her  pudgy  hands  over  her  protuberant  stomach, 
and  smiling  with  the  provoking  reticence  of  a  confirmed 
raconteuse  who  is  not  to  be  balked  of  the  pleasure  of 
unfolding  a  romance  in  her  own  way. 

"The  artist  declared  his  love,  toute  naturellement; 
but  Sceur  Simplicite  explained  why  this  might  not  be. 
She  had  loved  a  noble  prince,  and  her  sire  had  approved 
their  union ;  but  he  had  fallen  out  with  the  father  of  her 
betrothed  over  the  marriage  settlements  and  the  lovers 
had  been  rudely  torn  apart. 

"'A  prince,'  cried  Memling,  'who  was  he?' 

"'The  Emperor  Maximilian,'  she  replied. 

"Memling  kissed  the  hem  of  her  robe.  'And  thou  art 
Mary  of  Burgundy,  forgive  me  that  I  dared.' 

"  'I  am  Sceur  Simplicite,'  she  replied  meekly,  'who  will 
shortly  take  the  final  vows.  Never,  until  he  returned 
to  me  my  betrothal  ring,  I  swore  to  my  father,  would 
I  hold  communication  with  Maximilian.  But,  alas! 
Friend,  I  love  him  still.' 

"Then  Memling  cried  in  ecstasy,    'Thanks  be  to 


The  Benediction  of  St.  Ursula  and  her  Virgins  Militant. 

By  Memling 


Voyage  of  the  Eleven  Thousand  Virgins 


St.  Ursula  disembarks  at  Cologne 

By  Memling 


The  Lost  Tapestry  329 

God,  I  can  make  thee  happy.  I  was  with  thy  father 
at  the  battle  of  Nancy  when  he  fell  with  seven  deadly 
wounds.  From  his  finger  he  drew  a  ring.  "Take  this 
to  her  with  my  blessing,"  he  said,  and  died.  Tell  me  is 
it  thine?' 

"He  took  from  his  neck  a  slender  chain  and  laid 
within  her  hand  the  ring.    She  kissed  it  sobbing. 

"Thus  was  it,  Monsieur,  that  we  lost  the  Sceur 
Simplicite.  And  Memling?  Mary  of  Burgundy  made 
him  her  court-painter.  It  was  well,  for  the  poor  creature 
could  do  nothing  but  paint — nothing  else  whatever." 

I  am  aware  that  this  is  a  long  digression,  but  have, 
patience,  we  shall  get  back  to  that  minx  Babette,  have 
no  fear.  At  Courtrai,  only  a  few  miles  from  her  home, 
I  came  upon  my  first  real  adventure.  The  Broeltorens 
(or  bridge  towers)  guard  each  end  of  a  massive  old 
bridge  which  spans  the  Lys.  The  Speytorre  on  the 
south  bank  marks  the  confines  of  the  city  in  that  direc- 
tion, and  discerning  just  opposite  it  a  cabaret  display- 
ing the  inviting  announcement  liter  Verkoopt  Men 
Drank,  I  bethought  myself  that  there  was  no  inn  of  any 
description  on  the  road  beyond  and  entering  refreshed 
myself  in  a  seemly  manner.  As  I  crossed  the  threshold 
the  old  man  passed  out  whom  I  had  seen  at  Babette's 
cottage,  but  at  the  moment  I  gave  the  circumstance  no 
consideration.  At  the  conclusion  of  my  meal  mine 
host  informed  me  that,  my  horse  having  a  loose  shoe, 


330  Old  Belgium 

he  had  taken  the  liberty  to  send  it  to  a  farrier.  In  the 
meantime  would  Monsieur  amuse  himself  by  visiting 
the  tower? 

I  mounted  the  narrow  staircase  in  the  thickness  of  the 
walls,  looked  out  of  the  slits  by  which  the  archers 
commanded  the  Lys,  and,  tempted  by  an  ill-timed 
curiosity,  descended  to  the  dungeons  below  the  level  of 
the  river.  A  draft  blew  out  the  candle  which  the  woman 
who  showed  the  place  carried,  and,  bidding  me  not  to 
stir  until  she  returned,  for  the  staircase  had  no  rail  and 
was  slippery  with  ooze,  she  hurried  away  for  a  lantern. 
Disregarding  her  warning  of  a  trap-door  opening  into  a 
knife-garnished  oubliette,  I  toiled  up  the  staircase 
only  to  find  the  door  at  the  landing  locked.  I  was 
trapped ! 

Then  the  truth  flashed  upon  me.  The  old  man  was 
bearing  the  alb  to  Babette  and  had  secured  me  here 
until  it  should  be  safely  passed  over  the  border.  I 
passed  a  most  uncomfortable  night,  nor  in  the  morn- 
ing did  my  shouts  or  hammering  bring  rescue.  The 
dungeons  were  at  different  levels ;  the  upper  one  lighted 
by  a  sort  of  water-gate  giving  upon  the  river.  Pressing 
upon  it  with  all  my  might  the  rusted  bolts  gave  way 
and  it  fell  with  a  great  splash  into  the  water. 

A  barge  was  being  towed  along  the  stream  at  a  little 
distance.  With  one  wild  effort  I  sprang  far  out  and 
landed  on  my  knees  beside  the  startled  steersman.  The 
terrified  fellow  imagined  me  a  desperado  fleeing  from 


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The  Lost  Tapestry  331 

justice,  and  I  had  no  need  to  show  my  pistols  to  prevail 
upon  him  to  give  me  passage. 

As  I  hastened  across  the  fields  to  the  home  of  Babette 
I  noticed  my  own  horse  fastened  at  her  door.  It  was 
then  that  Prudence  tapped  me  on  the  shoulder,  and  I 
stole  to  the  shuttered  window  and  peeped  through  a 
small  heart-shaped  orifice.  There  stood  Babette  and 
opposite  her  the  little  old  man.  "He,  he,"  he  laughed, 
"he  may  stay  forever  in  the  dungeons  for  all  me,  for  I 
have  no  desire  to  meet  him." 

"But  I  am  longing  to  meet  you!"  I  cried  springing 
into  the  room.  I  could  have  throttled  the  villain  had 
not  Babette  flung  her  arms  about  me  and  given  him 
time  to  make  off. 

"Poor  dear,"  she  cried,  "how  hungry  you  must  be," 
and  she  hastily  piled  the  table  with  dainties  from  her  well- 
stocked  larder  which  I  lost  no  time  in  devouring.  "And 
now,  my  girl,"  I  cried,  pulling  her  down  upon  my  knee, 
"I  will  thank  you  to  deliver  to  me  the  Cardinal's  alb ! " 

"Ah!  you  saw  Pieter  give  it  to  me  when  you  spied 
through  the  shutter.  I  will  forgive  you,  since  we  are  all 
smugglers  together,  if  you  will  carry  it  to  the  pock- 
marked chambermaid  at  the  inn  of  the  Pomme  d'Or 
at  Lille.  She  is  in  Archbishop  Rohan's  employ  and 
will  give  you  a  large  sum  of  money,  no  less  than  two 
thousand  francs."  She  left  the  room  and  returned  with 
something  round  knotted  in  a  blue  checked  kerchief. 
' '  Look  within, ' '  she  cried  gleefully.    "It  is  a  ttte  de  mort. ' ' 


332  Old  Belgium 

"A  skull!"  I  repeated  aghast. 

"One  of  our  round  cheeses  which  they  call  death's 
heads.  Tell  me,  would  anyone  suspect  that  lace  of 
fabulous  value  was  secreted  within  its  rind?" 

"Never,"  I  replied.  "I  will  do  this  service  for  you, 
Babette,  if  you  will  give  me  a  kiss  now  and  your  promise 
that  I  shall  have  more  when  I  come  again." 

"With  all  my  heart, "  she  laughed,  and  bussed  me  on 
the  mouth  and  then  to  my  disgust  her  father  entered. 
I  bade  them  a  hasty  farewell,  Babette  calling  after  me: 
"Monsieur  will  not  forget — the  pock-marked  chamber- 
maid, not  the  pretty  one,  at  the  Pomme  d'Or." 

At  the  custom-house  on  the  frontier  I  found  the 
force  doubled,  the  chief  scrutinizing  the  meadow  with  a 
field-glass.  "We  have  discovered  the  smuggler's  depot 
on  this  side,"  he  said,  "an  agent  is  waiting  the  arrival  of 
an  important  envoi." 

"The  pock-marked  chambermaid  at  the  Pomme 
d'Or  at  Lille?"  I  asked,  carefully  depositing  the  cheese 
beneath  my  hat. 

"Not  at  all — the  pink  windmill  yonder." 

I  remembered  how  Babette's  father  had  obtained  the 
black  poodle  at  the  mill.  ' '  Is  the  agent  a  miller  ? "  I  asked. 

"A  miller  who  breeds  dogs.  When  great  ladies  drive 
out  to  look  at  them  they  carry  back  more  than  puppies. 
A  woman  and  child  with  a  lantern  are  leaving  the  mill 
now.  Look  sharp,  Jean,  is  anything  moving  on  the 
meadow?" 


The  Lost  Tapestry  333 

"Yes  sir,  a  small  animal,  a  dog,  I  fancy,  running  with 
all  its  might  in  their  direction." 

"A  clipped  black  poodle?"  I  asked. 

"No  sir,  a  yellow,  shaggy  mongrel." 

"Ah!  is  that  their  game?"  exclaimed  the  inspector 
taking  down  a  rifle.  "It  is  making  for  that  row  of 
willows  but  I  will  shoot  it  before  it  reaches  cover;  and 
do  you,  sir,  follow  that  lantern,  I  think  we  are  going  to 
make  a  discovery." 

The  woman  and  child  had  gained  the  shelter  of  the 
row  of  willows.  They  were  on  the  farther  side,  but  I 
could  see  the  light  twinkling  at  intervals  between  their 
trunks,  while  hidden  by  the  dusk  I  was  walking  now 
close  beside  them  and  feared  that  they  might  hear  my 
footsteps,  but  they  were  running  and  too  excited  to  heed 
anything  except  the  approaching  dog. 

Suddenly  a  shot  rang  out.  The  woman  gave  a  low 
whistle.  There  was  no  response.  "They  have  killed 
our  dear  Leo, "  she  said.  "Come,  let  us  go  back  before 
they  see  us." 

But  the  boy  began  to  cry,  "Leo,  my  beautiful  Leo! 
He  is  coming  Mother,  he  is  coming ! " 

Parting  the  branches  I  saw  a  mongrel,  with  a  heavy 
tawny  pelt  like  that  of  Babette's  dead  "Wolf,"  trailing 
its  wounded  body  toward  them.  The  boy  ran  to  it 
crying,  "Leo,  my  beautiful  Leo." 

Then  suddenly  he  cried:  "He  does  not  lick  my  face 
any  more,  and  he  is  all  bloody." 


334  Old  Belgium 

"He  is  dead,  my  child,"  replied  the  woman,  "help 
me  to  carry  him  to  the  mill."  But  at  that  instant  the 
inspector  and  Jean  crashed  through  the  trees.  The 
woman  and  child  dropped  their  burden  and  fled.  For 
the  dog  was  indeed  their  black  poodle,  Leo,  though 
strangely  disguised.  Petted  and  pampered  by  them, 
starved  by  Babette's  father,  what  wonder  that  when 
released  they  could  count  on  his  rushing  straight  to  his 
old  home  and  friends.  The  Cardinal's  alb  had  been 
strapped  to  his  body  and  over  it  had  been  fitted  a 
coat  made  of  Wolf's  skin,  fastened  at  the  neck  by  a 
collar  and  securely  sewn  together.  The  black  head  had 
been  dusted  with  flour  and  a  casual  glance  would  have 
detected  nothing  extraordinary.  The  replica  of  Car- 
dinal Granville's  alb  had  gained  another  point  of  like- 
ness to  the  original,  for  the  blood  of  the  faithful  Leo 
had  blotted  its  filmy  frostwork  with  vermilion  stains. 

So  engrossed  was  I  in  our  remarkable  seizure  that  I 
quite  forgot  the  humble  casket  which  Babette  had 
entrusted  to  me  with  the  assurance  that  it  was  the 
depository  of  the  contraband  lace.  Examination  proved 
that  it  was  neither  more  nor  less  than  what  it  appeared, 
a  spherical  cheese,  which  had  never  been  excavated  and 
cleverly  joined  as  she  had  represented.  The  conclusion 
was  obvious:  I  had  been  duped  to  distract  my  attention 
from  the  transport  of  the  alb,  and,  had  not  a  happy 
chance  thrown  it  in  my  way  I  would  not  have  been  able 
to  fulfill  the  first  of  my  three  promises  to  Colbert. 


The  Lost  Tapestry  335 

How  I  prospered  in  my  quest  for  the  Lost  Tapestry  and 
the  Queen's  Jewels  and  how  I  wrought  abundant 
revenge  on  the  minx  Babette  is  matter  for  another 
story.  Needless  to  add  that  there  was  no  pock-marked 
chambermaid  at  the  Pomme  d'Or  nor  indeed  any  inn 
of  that  name  at  Lille. 

11 

THE   SPURIOUS   VAN   DYCK 

"  \  TON,  Monsieur  Vidocq, "  said  the  Director  of  the 

*•  ^  Tapestry  Manufactory,  at  Oudenaarde,"  I  know 
nothing  of  such  a  tapestry  as  you  describe.  You  are 
thinking  possibly  of  an  oil  painting  entitled  The  Garden 
of  Love  which  the  King  of  Spain  purchased,  a  group  of 
cavaliers  and  ladies  near  a  pavilion  de  plaisance  in  a 
park.  Helena  Fourment,  the  wife  of  Rubens,  robed  in 
black  velvet,  figures  in  the  foreground,  with  the  notori- 
ous Gretchen  Le  Moine,  one  of  his  favourite  models. 

"Apropos,  I  have  in  my  possession  a  very  curious 
portrait,  which  proves  that  lady  to  have  been  van 
Dyck's  legal  wife." 

"Impossible!"  I  exclaimed.  "She  followed  him  to 
London,  it  is  true,  but  he  gave  her  conge  on  his  marriage 
with  Mary  Ruthven,  the  ward  of  Charles  I." 

"We  are  all  familiar  with  that  story,"  assented  the 
director,  "but  the  question  remains  whether  Gretch- 
en Le  Moine  was  a  clever  adventuress  or  a  sadly 


336  Old  Belgium 

wronged  woman.  Would  Monsieur  like  to  inspect  the 
portrait?" 

The  hope  I  had  entertained  that  it  might  not  be  a 
genuine  van  Dyck  vanished  as  I  studied  the  painting, 
for,  with  the  exception  of  the  face,  it  possessed  all  the 
master's  characteristics:  his  peculiar  charm,  "which 
gives  one  the  feeling  of  being  in  very  good  society,"  the 
aristocratic  and  tranquil  pose,  flowing  drapery,  sump- 
tuous but  restrained  colour,  and  the  slender,  sensitive 
fingers.  But  the  face  was  a  disappointment.  It  was  not 
his  winsome  childwife,  Mary  Ruthven,  whose  pitiful 
eyes  look  forth  with  such  appeal  from  the  well-known 
portrait  in  the  Pinakothek;  instead,  an  insolent  face 
devoid  of  distinction,  which  might  have  been  painted 
by  Rubens,  so  glowing  were  the  carnations. 

I  turned  indignantly  to  the  Director.  "What  proof 
have  you  that  this  woman  was  the  wife  of  van  Dyck?" 

"Voild,  Monsieur,"  he  replied,  turning  the  painting 
about.  On  the  back  of  the  canvas  was  traced  in  the 
painter's  well-known  hand:  "To  my  master  and  friend, 
Peter  Paul  Rubens,  a  portrait  of  my  dear  wife,  from 
Anthony  van  Dyck.     1639." 

"The  painting  has  been  tampered  with,"  I  exclaimed. 
"Gretchen  Le  Moine  discovered  this  inscription;  deter- 
mined to  prove  herself  his  widow,  to  claim  his  fortune, 
and  to  wreak  revenge  upon  her  rival  she  painted  over 
the  face  of  Mary  Ruthven  with  her  own ! " 

"What  amateur  could  have  painted  those  features?" 


Portrait  of  Van  Dyck,  by  himself 
Photographische  Gcscllschaft,  Berlin 


o 
H 

>> 
u 

q 


1 


Tbe  Lost  Tapestry  337 

he  asked  scornfully.  "Only  Rubens  had  such  a  tech- 
nique and  he  would  not  have  stooped  to  villainy  of 
that  order." 

Silenced  but  unconvinced  I  recalled  how  van  Dyck's 
marriage  had  been  planned  by  Charles  I.  who  loved  his 
ward  Mary  Ruthven  as  his  own  daughter  and  van 
Dyck  as  a  son ;  how  her  father,  suspected  of  treason,  his 
property  confiscated,  languished  in  the  Tower  but  the 
King  had  taken  the  penniless  girl  into  his  own  house- 
hold. Charles  had  established  van  Dyck  in  a  forest 
studio  near  his  castle  of  Windsor.  In  this  sylvan  soli- 
tude the  two  lovers  met  without  fear  of  intrusion  and 
their  attachment  ripened  to  betrothal. 

One  midsummer  morning  as  van  Dyck  deposited  a 
letter  for  his  fiancee  in  the  hollow  of  an  old  willow  he 
was  startled  by  a  mocking  laugh.  Turning  he  encoun- 
tered the  flaming  eyes  of  his  model,  who,  unsummoned, 
had  followed  him  from  London. 

"Ah!  we  make  assignations  with  some  pretty  court- 
lady,"  she  exclaimed  spitefully.  "I  thought  as  much 
when  you  wrote  me  that  you  were  about  to  go  abroad 
and  would  no  longer  require  my  services  as  housekeeper 
or  model.  It  is  then  to  be  a  wedding  journey !  Doubt- 
less some  wealthy  heiress  has  bought  you." 

"No,  Margaret,  the  lady  is  as  poor  as  yourself.  I 
shall  support  my  wife  with  the  work  of  this  hand." 

"And  if  you  should  suddenly  lose  its  use?" 

"That  would  indeed  be  a  calamity,  for  my  art  is  my 


338  Old  Belgium 

sole  means  of  livelihood.  I  do  not  fear  paralysis  until 
my  declining  years  but  will  strive  to  put  by  something 
for  the  evil  day." 

"Anthony,"  she  exclaimed,  "unless  you  renounce 
this  marriage  you  shall  never  again  touch  brush  to 
canvas." 

He  regarded  her  gravely.  "You  have  no  reason  to 
hate  me,  Margaret.  You  came  to  me  in  distress.  I 
gave  you  a  home  and  have  always  treated  you  with  gen- 
erosity and  respect." 

"  A  fig  for  your  respect !  Am  I  a  servant  to  be  cast  off 
at  a  moment's  notice  with  a  year's  salary  as  quittance?  " 

His  voice  lost  its  calm.  "You  have  been  my  model 
and  housekeeper,  Margaret,  nothing  more..  When  a 
man,  I  thought  my  friend,  boasted  openly  that  you 
were  his  mistress  and  he  had  no  need  to  support  you, 
since  I  saved  him  that  expense,  it  seemed  to  me  that 
I  had  done  so  long  enough." 

"Who  told  you?"  she  cried;  then  realizing  that  she 
had  betrayed  herself :  "  Desert  me  if  you  will,  but  think 
not  you  shall  escape  punishment." 

Van  Dyck  was  never  to  see  her  again,  but  her 
vengeance,  missing  its  aim,  fell  upon  one  dearer  to 
him  than  his  own  life. 

The  following  day  Mary  Ruthven  sought  the  willow 
to  see  if  perchance  it  held  a  letter  from  her  lover.  As 
she  inserted  her  hand  in  the  hollow  her  wrist  was 
suddenly  gripped  by  the  teeth  of  a  steel  trap. 


The  Lost  Tapestry  339 

Roused  by  her  cries  van  Dyck  ran  anxiously  from  the 
studio.  Tenderly  he  released  the  fragile  hand  which, 
but  for  her  protecting  bracelet,  would  have  been  severed 
by  the  bloody  fangs. 

"O  my  love!  my  love!"  he  cried  in  anguish  greater 
than  her  own,  "that  you  should  have  suffered,  in  my 
stead,  this  unspeakable  atrocity!"  Staunching  the 
wound  as  best  he  could,  he  ran  with  her  to  the  castle. 
From  shock  and  loss  of  blood  her  life  hung  long  in  the 
balance,  but  she  bore  in  happiness  the  lifelong  scar, 
glorying  that  her  unwitting  hand  had  been  the  means  of 
preserving  for  the  world  the  genius  of  its  greatest  master. 

Two  years  of  happiness  followed  in  which : 

"  The  sulphurous  fires  of  passion  and  woe, 
Lay  deep  'neath  a  silence  pure  and  smooth, 
Like  burned-out  craters  healed  with  snow." 

Into  his  scant  forty- two  years  van  Dyck  had  com- 
pressed the  activities  of  a  lifetime.  He  was  weary  of 
everything,  worn  with  regret  and  disillusion.  Never 
could  his  tireless  hand  find  rest,  nor  his  fervid  mind 
peace.  These  lines,  written  in  a  moment  of  secret 
despair,  Mary  discovered  one  day  beneath  his  pillow: 

Come,  tranquil  Death,  with  thy  benignant  might, 
Give  to  mine  eyes  the  solace  of  thy  night. 
Enfold  me  in  thy  passionless  embrace, 
Breathe  thy  cool  breath  upon  my  fevered  face, 
Like  fragrant  wind,  in  boughs  with  blooms  bedight. 


340  Old  Belgium 

Westward,  the  weary  swallows  wing  in  flight, 
The  red  sun  moltens  on  the  mountain  bright, 
All  stillness  is  and  peace  through  utter  space. 
Come,  tranquil  Death! 

Farewell,  life's  little  hour  of  vain  delight, 
Triumph  and  fame,  fierce  lust  of  bloody  fight, 
The  wine-red  passions  of  my  life's  disgrace, 
From  my  shrived  soul,  all  sorrows  now  efface. 
Grant  thou  thy  peace,  compassionately  blest; 
Come,  tranquil  Death! 

As  I  recalled  this  story  to  the  Director  he  sympathized 
in  my  indignation  that  the  gentle  and  trusting  Mary 
must  yield  her  title  of  honourable  wife  to  such  a  tigress 
as  Gretchen  Le  Moine.  None  the  less  he  scornfully 
rejected  my  theory  that  the  portrait  vouched  for  by 
van  Dyck  was  spurious  or  had  been  tampered  with 
in  any  way. 

Certain  that  my  solution  was  correct,  I  set  forth  to  the 
chateau  of  Rubens,  hoping  there  to  discover  the  missing 
clue.  Riding  into  Perck  during  the  dejeuner  hour  I 
halted  at  the  famous  hostelry  of  the  Croix  Rouge. 

Here,  in  the  shady  square,  good  old  David  Teniers 
had  painted  many  a  rollicking  kermess.  Here  also  in 
the  smoky  kitchen  of  the  inn  he  had  grouped  his 
boisterous  revellers;  smoking,  eating,  drinking,  and 
kissing  one  another  in  a  joyous  riot  of  abandoned  mirth. 
Seating  myself  at  its  oaken  table  I  called  for  a  flagon  of 
mine  host's  best  Flemish  and  a  hare,  which  he  had 
doubtless  poached  from  the  forest  of  Steen. 


The  Lost  Tapestry  341 

As  I  lighted  my  porcelain  pipe  and  stretched  myself 
at  ease  before  the  blazing  kitchen  fire,  the  sunbeams 
glinting  on  glazed  earthenware,  burning  in  polished 
copper  cauldrons,  and  lingering  within  great  glass  bottles 
like  a  dissolved  and  imprisoned  flame,  I  felt  myself 
transported  to  the  day  when  the  great  master  exalted 
this  humble  interior  by  the  wizardry  of  his  brush. 

The  landlord  beguiled  me  with  traditions  of  the 
country.  "Monsieur  must  visit  Dry  Toren  [Three 
Towers],  the  manoir  of  Teniers,  near  at  hand,  and  Steen, 
the  chateau  tout  dfait  magnifique  of  Rubens." 

"That  is  the  very  purpose  of  my  coming, "  I  rejoined. 
"Have  you  ever  chanced  to  hear  of  his  noted  model, 
Gretchen  Le  Moine?" 

"Gretchen  Le  Moine,  she  who  was  the  wife  of  An- 
thony van  Dyck?  Her  father  was  the  garde-chasse  of 
the  chateau.  He  lived  in  the  old  tower  and  purveyed  the 
table  of  Steen  with  venison,  and  trapped  boar  and  deer 
which  Snyders  painted  on  the  canvases  of  Rubens." 

"That  is  very  possible,"  I  replied,  "for  it  is  a  well- 
known  fact  that  he  could  never  have  executed  those 
great  hunting  scenes  without  the  assistance  of  his 
famous  partner." 

"Le  Moine  invented  a  trap,  which  he  placed  near 
the  drinking  places  of  the  deer  to  enable  his  patron  to 
paint  them." 

"Attendez,"  I  cried;  "what  sort  of  a  machine  was 
this?" 


342  Old  Belgium 

'  •  "An  insignificant  little  affair,  Monsieur,  small  enough 
to  put  in  a  valise,  but  with  a  powerful  spring  and  very 
cruel  teeth." 

"So,"  I  reflected,  "it  was  one  of  her  father's  traps 

which  Gretchen  carried  to  England.     Tell  me, "  I  asked, 

"why  you  think  the  model  was  the  wife  of  van  Dyck." 

"  Why  that  is  known  to  everyone, "  he  replied.  "Her 
portrait  as  Saint  Cecilia  was  given  to  the  village  church, 
where  it  hung  for  many  years  before  the  organ.  It  was 
hinged,  to  swing  like  a  door  and  display  an  inscription  in 
the  artist's  hand." 

"  It  is  odd,"  I  observed,  "that  Rubens  should  not  have 
donated  to  his  village  church  one  of  his  own  paintings." 

"It  was  not  Rubens  who  left  it  to  the  parish,  but 
Madame  van  Dyck,  who  was  at  Steen  when  Rubens 
died.  Next  year  she  came  again  and  was  married  to  a 
nobleman,  whose  name  I  have  forgotten.  He  sought  to 
purchase  the  painting,  but  at  that  time  the  church 
would  not  part  with  it.  Lately,  however,  in  order  to 
pay  for  reparations  they  sold  it  to  a  collector  from 
Oudenaarde." 

Pressing  a  crown  in  the  palm  of  my  loquacious  land- 
lord and  declining  his  persistent  offers  to  act  as  guide  I 
bade  him  farewell. 

"  Will  not  Monsieur  return  and  sleep  here?  "  he  asked. 

" Malheur eusement  non,"  I  replied;  "I  must  reach 
Malines  tonight." 

" Dusk  deepens  fast  in  the  forest, "  he  objected,  "and 


The  Lost  Tapestry  343 

you  would  surely  be  lost.  Spectres  haunt  the  castle, 
and  travellers  who  go  thither  after  sundown  rarely 
return." 

"Nonsense,"  I  retorted.  "My  directions  are  very 
clear.  I  shall  not  lose  my  way.  As  for  ghosts — "  I 
tapped  my  sword-hilt,  and- mine  host  turned  pale.  Had 
he  recognized  me?  Scarcely,  but  his  warning  roused 
my  suspicions.  On  no  account  would  I  spend  the  night 
at  his  tavern. 

The  sun  slanted  over  the  moorland,  gilding  the  way- 
side bracken  and  flaming  the  trembling  aspens  with 
gleams  of  violet  and  gold.  I  spurred  my  mare  to  a 
gallop  through  the  foliage-arched  allies  of  the  forest. 
Soon  its  spell  was  upon  me.  A  mystic  murmur  stirred 
the  wood,  as  though  it  were  alive  with  unseen  sylvan 
presences.  Fauns,  satyrs,  nymphs  seemed  to  flit  before 
me  through  the  dusk  as  I  plunged  into  the  depths  of  its 
sombre  intricacies. 

There  fell  a  sudden  hush  upon  the  feathered  and  furry 
denizens  of  the  wold.  Not  a  rabbit  scuttled  through 
the  underbrush  nor  squirrel  chattered  in  the  branches 
overhead;  only  the  cicadas  strummed  and  wood-moths 
glinted  in  the  sparse  sunbeams. 

I  halloed  lustily!  My  voice  echoed  back  huskily 
like  the  dying  notes  of  a  distant  horn.  A  peal  of  eerie 
laughter  rang  through  the  silence.  I  spurred  eagerly 
forward  in  pursuit.  Of  a  sudden  my  horse  fell  back  on 
his  haunches  at  the  brink  of  a  deep  pool.     I  caught, 


344  Old  Belgium 

between  parted  branches,  a  gleam  of  white  forms  which 
flickered  for  a  moment,  then  were  swallowed  up  in  the 
shadowy  waters. 

With  hair  dishevelled  flashing  fires  of  gold, 

Like  streaming  comets  'thwart  the  dusky  night, 

Elusive  through  the  by-ways  of  the  wold, 

Seeking  secluded  fountains  clear  and  cold, 
There  safe  to  hide  mid  reeds  and  lilies  white, 
Diana's  dryads  flee  in  pale  affright, 

From  swift  pursuing  satyrs  lewd  and  old. 

Then  sudden  all  the  satyrs  disappear, 
From  pool  and  rill  the  nymphs  emboldened  peer 
As,  mirrored  in  the  tranquil  mere  below, 
Resplendent  gleams  Diana's  crescent  bow. 
Which  seen,  her  daughters  issue  unafraid, 
Again  with  laughter  light  to  thrill  the  glade. 

On  the  glassy  surface  only  the  moon  was  mirrored; 
swallows  dipped  sharp  wings  in  its  placid  shadow  and 
ever  widening  circles  rippled  and  undulated  till  they 
were  lost  in  void. 

"Am  I  then  bewitched? "  I  asked  myself  as  I  rode  on, 
following  a  trail  which  led  from  the  pool  to  the  ruined 
hunting-lodge. 

At  the  door  an  aged  woman  was  crooning  to  a  babe. 
A  few  questions  assured  me  that  the  crone  was  a 
descendant  of  Ignace  Le  Moine  the  garde-chasse. 

"Have  you  by  chance  any  examples  of  Rubens's 
work?"  I  asked. 

"There  are  papers  in  the  loft,"  she  mumbled,  "pre- 


The  Lost  Tapestry  345 

cious  drawings;  but  when  my  husband  took  them  to 
the  city  no  one  would  buy,  because,  forsooth,  they  were 
unsigned,  and  a  little  nibbled  by  the  rats." 

"Might  I  see  them?" 

"But  certainly,  if  Monsieur  proves  himself  sufficiently 
generous!" 

I  displayed  a  purse  filled  with  gold  and  jingled  it 
alluringly.  She  led  me  to  the  garret  where  from  a  mass 
of  worthless  lumber  we  unearthed  a  dusty  roll.  My 
heart  leaped  as  I  uncovered  the  lost  design ;  though  dis- 
coloured and  mutilated,  with  one  of  the  heads  cut 
from  the  parchment,  it  was  unmistakably  the  work  of 
Rubens,  and  on  the  margin  were  written  the  names  of 
the  persons  represented. 

In  the  centre  was  the  Queen  Marie  de  Medicis,  on 
her  left  stood  the  beautiful  Helena  Fourmont,  and  on 
the  right,  with  arms  folded  in  a  daring  attitude,  sat  the 
headless  lady.  I  gazed  spellbound  upon  her  Juno-like 
arms  and  on  her 

"...  breast's  superb  abundance 
Where  a  man  might  base  his  head," 

then  caught  the  name  traced  beneath,  "Gretchen  Le 
Moine!"  My  missing  clue  had  dropped  from  the 
skies! 

I  poured  fifty  golden  guilders  into  the  greedy  hands 
of  the  delighted  beldame  and  left  her  calling  down  upon 
my  head  blessings  of  all  the  saints. 


346  Old  Belgium 

Twilight  deepened  to  dark.  A  broad  avenue  stretched 
before  me,  like  a  white  river  on  whose  surface  wavered 
weird  shadows  of  sentinel  poplars.  I  came  to  an  etoile; 
six  allies  radiated  and  I  paused  uncertain  which  way 
to  proceed.  Then  a  rift  in  the  clouds  flooded  one  of 
the  vistas  with  moonlight  and  I  perceived  at  its  ex- 
tremity the  high-pitched  roofs  of  an  old  chateau. 
Silhouetted  sharply  against  the  sinister  sky  loomed  a 
battered  tower,  in  whose  upper  story  gleamed  a  dim 
light  which  was  extinguished  suddenly  on  my  approach. 

Tying  my  horse  to  the  chain  of  the  lowered  draw- 
bridge, I  took  a  taper  from  my  wallet,  lighted  it  and 
entered. 

Wandering  through  the  tenantless  chambers,  whose 
tarnished  gilding  and  faded  frescoes  still  displayed  much 
of  their  former  splendour,  musing  upon  the  "King  of 
Painters"  and  his  sumptuous  court  which  had  formerly 
filled  these  desolate  salons  with  warmth  of  joyous  life, 
I  was  suddenly  arrested  by  a  sound  of  hollow  tapping 
upon  the  wall.  I  hastened  from  one  salon  to  another  in 
vain  endeavour  to  locate  the  sounds  which  continued 
rhythmically,  like  the  hammering  of  a  mason's  chisel. 
I  had  decided  that  they  were  made  by  rooks  tapping 
upon  the  leaden  roof,  when  suddenly  the  floor  creaked 
overhead.  Then  a  door  grated  on  its  hinges  and  swung 
to  with  a  sharp  metallic  click. 

I  stood  silent  for  an  instant,  then  cautiously  retraced 
my  steps.    The  room  was  empty  and  the  noises  had 


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The  Lost  Tapestry  347 

ceased.  Chancing  to  lower  my  eyes  I  saw  a  woman's 
footprints  on  the  dusty  floor.  I  trailed  them  through  a 
labyrinth  of  passages  to  an  oratory  in  the  ancient 
tower,  where  the  mysterious  sounds  were  again  audible. 
The  light  of  a  lantern  shone  from  the  half-open  door 
and,  crouching  behind  a  confessional,  I  perceived  three 
masked  figures  prying  a  panel  from  the  marble  altar. 
At  the  same  instant  I  felt  a  gentle  grip  upon  my  arm, 
and  turning  faced  a  woman  shrouded  in  a  hooded  cloak. 

"Hush!"  she  whispered,  "it  is  I,  Babette, "  and 
throwing  back  her  capuchin  I  recognized  my  little  maid 
of  the  smuggler's  cottage.  ' '  Fly, ' '  she  implored, ' '  before 
they  are  aware  that  you  are  spying  upon  them." 

"Fly!  not  I,  until  I  have  ferreted  out  this  little 
affair."  But  our  conversation  was  interrupted  by  a 
sudden  crash.  Under  the  battering  of  their  chisels  the 
entire  front  of  the  altar  gave  way  and  fell  in  shattered 
fragments  upon  the  pavement. 

I  leaned  heedlessly  from  my  hiding-place,  while 
Babette  vainly  strove  to  hold  me  back.  The  confes- 
sional creaked  beneath  our  movements  and  instantly 
the  three  blackguards  were  upon  me. 

I  laid  about  me  manfully  with  my  rapier  in  every 
direction.  Babette  reinforced  me  by  tripping  one  of  the 
assassins  who  strove  to  poignard  me  in  the  back.  As 
I  ran  him  through  the  throat  I  recognized  my  host  of 
the  Croix  Rouge.  "  Come  on, "  I  cried  to  the  others  who 
shrunk  back  in  hesitation. 


348  Old  Belgium 

Rushing  forward  to  the  lunge,  laughing  as  I  leaped, 
drunk  with  blood,  I  sent  another  rascal  reeling  through 
the  doorway.  His  comrade  with  a  shriek  of  terror  fled 
headlong  down  the  stairs. 

"Are  you  hurt?"  Babette  asked  as  I  wiped  a  trickle 
of  blood  from  my  cheek. 

"Only  a  scratch,"  I  replied,  "but,  quick,  let  us 
search  the  altar."  The  fools  had  left  their  booty,  a 
leaden  casket. 

Ripping  off  its  lid  with  a  vigorous  wrench,  to  our 
astonishment  a  shower  of  dazzling  jewels  strewed  the 
floor.  It  was  the  famous  parure  which  Marie  de  Medi- 
cis  had  entrusted  to  Rubens  as  gage  for  moneys  which 
he  had  loaned  her. 

"These  are  the  crown  jewels  of  France,"  I  cried. 
"They  must  be  rendered  to  the  King." 

"Yes,"  Babette  replied,  "you  must  take  them." 

"And  thee,  also,  my  gem  of  gems, "  I  said.  ' ' But  now 
it  is  high  time  to  free  ourselves. ' '  We  sped  along  the  cor- 
ridor to  a  staircase  and  postern,  thence  to  my  great  stal- 
lion, stout  enough  to  carry  double  and  chafing  to  be  off. 

As  we  pounded  down  the  avenue  a  musket-ball 
whizzed  by  my  head.  The  report  so  excited  my  steed 
that,  fancying  himself  upon  the  battlefield,  he  charged 
valiantly  into  a  band  of  braconniers  at  the  gate.  One 
of  the  number  by  waving  his  coat  strove  to  frighten  the 
mettlesome  animal  but  he  kicked  the  poor  devil  sense- 
less into  the  ditch.     Crashing  through  the  gate  he 


The  Lost  Tapestry  349 

struck  into  a  run  that  would  have  carried  off  the  trophy 
at  the  King's  races. 

Hungry  and  weary  after  the  strenuous  happenings 
of  the  night  the  appetizing  odour  of  cafe  au  lait  greeted 
our  nostrils  most  gratefully  as  we  rode  into  Malines. 

In  justice  to  myself  I  must  explain  that  I  was  neither 
drunk  nor  moon-struck  when  I  beheld  Diana  and  her 
nymphs  disporting  in  the  sylvan  pool.  The  daughters 
of  the  garde-chasse  and  Babette  had  been  enjoying  a 
bath,  and,  while  I  was  chatting  with  the  old  crone, 
Babette  had  stolen  back  to  the  chateau. 

Little  remains  to  tell  save  that  we  were  most  solidly 
wedded  at  St.  Rombold,  while  the  carillon  pealed  its 
merriest  chimes  from  the  great  belfry. 

Thence  we  pressed  eagerly  forward  to  Oudenaarde 
where  I  found  the  Director  of  the  Tapestry  Establish- 
ment. I  related  to  him  my  exploit  in  quest  of  the  lost 
design,  and  he  overwhelmed  me  with  felicitations  on  the 
successful  outcome  of  my  venture. 

I  suggested  that  we  might  remove  the  spurious  face 
from  the  disputed  van  Dyck  by  steaming  the  canvas. 
This  we  proceeded  to  do,  and  after  a  thorough  Turkish 
bath  peeled  away  the  rubicund  countenance  of  Gretchen 
Le  Moine,  revealing  in  its  place  the  exquisite  face  of 
Mary  Ruthven,  van  Dyck's  true  and  only  wife.  Prodigy 
of  prodigies  the  face  of  Gretchen  fitted  precisely  into 
the  aperture  in  the  Rubens  cartoon  from  which  it  had 
been  cut  by  its  crafty  original ! 


350  Old  Belgium 

On  receiving  the  tapestry  design  and  the  Queen's 
jewels  Colbert  was  so  overjoyed  that  he  promoted  me 
to  the  post  of  Chief  of  the  Detective  Bureau.  My  salary 
amply  satisfies  Babette  and  has  enabled  me  to  purchase 
commissions  in  the  army  for  my  four  gallant  sons  and 
to  handsomely  portion  my  five  buxom  daughters,  who, 
in  astuteness  and  charm,  so  markedly  resemble  their 
father. 


CHAPTER   X 


WATERLOO 


There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 

And  Belgium's  capital  had  gathered  then 

Her  Beauty  and  her  Chivalry,  and  bright 

The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men; 

A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily;  and  when 

Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 

Soft  eyes  look'd  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again, 

And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage-bell; 

But  hush!  hark!  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising  knell! 

Did  ye  not  hear  it?    No;  'twas  but  the  wind, 

Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street; 

On  with  the  dance!  let  joy  be  unconfined; 

No  sleep  till  morn,  when  Youth  and  Pleasure  meet 

To  chase  the  glowing  Hours  with  flying  feet — 

But,  hark! — that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more, 

As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat; 

And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier,  than  before! 

Arm !  Arm !  it  is — it  is — the  cannon's  opening  roar ! 

Ah!  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago 
Blush'd  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness; 

-    351 


352  Old  Belgium 

And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated;  who  could  guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes, 
Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could  rise ! 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste :  the  steed, 
The  mustering  squadron  and  the  clattering  car, 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed, 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war; 
And  the  deep  thunder,  peal  on  peal  afar; 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star; 
While  throng'd  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 
Or  whispering,  with  white  lips — "The  foe!    They  come! 
They  come!" 


Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life, 
Last  eve  in  Beauty's  circle  proudly  gay, 
The  midnight  brought  the  signal-sound  of  strife, 
The  morn  the  marshalling  in  arms, — the  day 
Battle's  magnificently  stern  array! 
The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which  when  rent 
The  earth  is  cover'd  thick  with  other  clay, 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heap'd  and  pent, 
Rider  and  horse, — friend,  foe, — in  one  red  burial  blent ! 
Byron,  Childe  Harold,  Canto  iii.,  stanzas  21-30. 


THE  DUCHESS  OF  RICHMOND'S  BALL 

T  would  surely  be  the  most  brilliant  ball  of  her  life, 

but  Nellie  Walters  had  no  desire  to  attend  it. 
Brussels  was  quite  the  gayest  city  in  Europe  that 


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Waterloo  353 

summer  of  1 815;  far  livelier  than  London  or  even  Paris. 
The  Duke  of  Wellington  had  made  it  his  headquarters, 
and  the  town  overflowed  with  officers  of  the  Allies. 
English  families  of  wealth  and  fashion  flocked  thither 
to  be  near  their  martial  kinsfolk  and  to  enjoy  the 
ceaseless  festivities.  The  air  thrilled  with  dance  music, 
played  by  regimental  bands.  Ponsonby's  Dragoons 
played  The  Girl  I  Left  Behind  Me,  while  perfidiously 
making  eyes  at  the  girls  they  found  before  them.  The 
Irish  Inniskillings  bawled  the  Shan  Van  Vocht,  de- 
claring in  the  very  faces  of  the  Nassovians  that  "the 
Orange  must  decay, "  unable  to  quite  comprehend  that 
the  then  prince  of  that  name  was  their  Ally.  The  streets 
were  alive  with  fluttering  banners,  flash  of  gold- 
broidered  uniforms,  and  the  prancing  of  mettlesome 
chargers.  The  Park  teemed  with  coquetting  couples 
seeking  in  vain  a  bench  in  some  secluded  bosquet  not 
already  pre-empted  by  Cupid's  devotees.  Byron  and 
Tom  Moore  were  the  favourite  poets  of  the  day  and 
every  man  subscribed  to  the  sentiment : 

"How  sweet  is  the  thought  that  wherever  we  rove 
We're  sure  to  find  someone  that's  charming  and  near, 
And  that  when  we're  afar  from  the  lips  that  we  love 
We've  but  to  make  love  to  the  lips  that  are  near." 

"  There  is  at  this  present  more  love-making  to  the 
square  inch  in  Brussels,  ma'am, "  said  the  Duke  of  Rich- 
mond to  his  lady,  "than  in  any  city  on  the  continent." 
■a 


354  Old  Belgium 

Nellie  Walters  turned  up  her  pretty  nose  and  sniffed ; 
her  brother,  Captain  Jack,  stammered,  fidgeted,  and 
glanced  across  the  room  at  pretty  Huguette  de  Gou- 
mont,  who  blushed  and  ran  into  the  garden.  Nellie 
Walters  had  accepted  the  invitation  of  the  Duchess  to 
spend  a  fortnight,  not  for  the  sake  of  these  social 
distractions,  but  because  she  wished  to  be  with  her 
brother  as  long  as  possible,  near  enough  to  go  to  him 
"in  case  anything  happened." 

There  was  that  feeling  in  the  air, — something  was 
bound  to  happen  soon.  No  one  knew  just  where 
Napoleon  and  his  army  were,  but  he  would  strike  ere 
long.  This  was  the  reason,  doubtless,  for  the  reckless 
gaiety  of  the  soldiers;  they  "whose  business  'twas  to 
die,"  wished  to  drain  the  cup  of  sweetness  before  it  was 
dashed  from  their  lips. 

Many  a  fine  fellow  had  looked  longingly  at  Nellie 
Walters,  had  made  advances  only  to  be  sternly  repulsed. 
She  passed  for  the  crudest  little  beauty  who  ever 
flaunted  false  lights  before  the  eyes  of  a  love-wrecked 
mariner.  But,  had  the  truth  been  known,  Nellie  was 
only  cold  because  her  heart  was  flaming  with  hidden 
fires.  A  year  agone  she  had  committed  it  unre- 
servedly to  Antoine  du  Mont,  a  youthful  lieutenant  of 
cuirassiers,  whom  she  had  met  in  Paris.  Their  betrothal 
must  be  a  secret,  for  their  families  were  enemies.  He 
was  en  campagne  with  Marshal  Ney,  where,  Nellie  did 
not  know.    She  waited  patiently  for  the  termination  of 


Waterloo  355 

the  war.  Jack  assured  her  the  campaign  would  be  a 
brief  one,  and  her  brother  should  know  for  he  was  an 
officer  in  Ponsonby's  Dragoons  on  fire  to  make  mince- 
meat of  "Bony." 

While  awaiting  this  pleasing  diversion  he  was  engaged 
in  the  more  serious  business  of  making  love  to  his 
sister's  friend  Huguette.  There  was  a  secret  tie  be- 
tween the  two  girls,  for  Huguette  was  a  cousin  of 
Antoine  du  Mont,  the  only  being  to  whom  Nellie 
could  pour  out  her  heart. 

They  attended  the  famous  ball  and  pointed  out  to 
one  another  the  celebrities.  "There  is  the  Duke  of 
Brunswick,"  said  Nellie,  "in  high  feather  tonight, — as 
always  a  great  favourite  with  the  ladies." 

"Yes, "  assented  Huguette,  "I  heard  him  make  two 
engagements  for  next  Monday  afternoon,  one  with 
Lady  Caroline  Lamb  and  the  other  with  the  Princess  of 
Orange,  and  he  can't  possibly  keep  both." 

"Men  are  so  irresponsible,"  replied  Nellie.  "Per- 
haps," and  her  words  were  more  prophetic  than  she 
knew,  "he  will  fail  them  both." 

Captain  Walters,  who  had  been  edging  eagerly 
toward  them,  now  presented  Colonel  Ponsonby,  who 
led  Nellie  away  to  the  mazes  of  Money  Musk,  giving 
her  brother  the  opportunity  which  he  sought,  a  tete-d- 
tete  with  Huguette. 

"What  a  dancer  Ponsonby  is,"  he  remarked,  "and 
he  seems  quite  taken  with  Nell;  but  tonight  she  dances 


356  Old  Belgium 

like  a  marionette  and  with  about  as  much  expres- 
sion in  her  features.  I  don't  know  what  has  come 
over  my  little  sister;  she  used  to  be  as  merry  as  a 
squirrel. " 

"She  needs  country  life.  I  shall  carry  her  away  very 
soon  to  our  little  chateau.  Galloping  through  the 
woods  will  bring  back  the  colour  to  her  cheeks." 

"That  is  very  good  of  you.  Where  is  your  chateau? 
May  I  drop  in  sometime?" 

"It  is  only  a  tout  petit  chateau,  a  manoir  rather,  very 
simple  and  old — with  a  great  tower  of  a  pigeonnier.  I 
have  some  of  the  pigeons  here  in  Brussels,  and  can  send 
word  from  Hougomont  and  back  in  less  time  than  by 
post." 

"Hougomont?    Is  that  the  name  of  the  estate?" 

"Yes,  our  far-away  ancestor,  who  built,  and  gave  his 
name  to  the  chateau  was  Hugo  du  Mont.  We  have 
du  Mont  relatives  in  France  but  the  name  of  the 
Belgian  branch  has  become  corrupted  to  Goumont, 
and  the  manoir  is  called  Hougomont.  It  is  near 
Waterloo." 

1 '  I  shall  find  my  way  there,  never  fear.  But  there  is  an 
orderly  presenting  a  despatch  to  the  Duke  of  Wellington. 
The  music  has  stopped.  Here  comes  Ponsonby.  Is 
there  any  news  Colonel? " 

"Yes,"  replied  the  latter.  "The  French  have 
crossed  the  Sambre.  We  have  orders  to  march  at 
dawn." 


Waterloo  357 

11 

THE   DOVES   OF   HOUGOMONT 

Three  hundred  British  lads,  they  made  three  thousand  reel. 
Their  hearts  were  made  of  English  oak,  their  swords  of 

Sheffield  steel, 
Their  horses  were  in  Yorkshire  bred, 
And  Ponsonby  them  led. 
So  huzza  for  brave  dragoons,  with  their  long  swords,  boldly 

riding, 
Whack!  fal  de  ral,  etc. 

Then  here's  a  health  to  Wellington,  to  Ponsonby  and  Long, 

And  a  single  word  of  Bonaparte  before  I  close  my  song. 

And  it's  peste!  morbleu,  mon  GSneral, 

Hear  the  English  bugle  call ! 

Oh!    You'll  run  from  our  dragoons  with  their  long  swords, 

boldly  riding! 
Whack!  fal  de  ral,  etc. 

Walter  Scott. 

So  Ponsonby's  Dragoons  had  vaingloriously  sung 
at  many  a  rollicking  banquet,  but  they  were  silent  now 
as  in  the  early  dawn  they  rode  grimly  out  of  Brussels. 
There  had  been  no  sleep  the  night  before.  Some  had 
remained  at  the  ball  dancing  until  the  bugle  call,  mount- 
ing in  silk  stockings  and  dancing  pumps.  The  little 
daughter  of  the  Duchess  of  Richmond  had  buckled  the 
Duke  of  Wellington's  sword  belt,  and  many  a  white- 
faced  woman  had  choked  back  her  tears  lest  they  should 
salt  the  coffee,  which  she  bravely  prepared  as  a  stirrup- 
cup  for  her  husband. 


358  Old  Belgium 

What  Jack  Walters  achieved  and  endured  during  the 
next  two  days  is  history  written  in  four  languages, 
studied  in  the  schools,  discussed  and  lauded  by  military 
expert  and  patriotic  bard.  We  shall  have  the  battle 
fought  over  for  us  anon  by  two  of  its  veterans  who 
understood  it  better  a  half  century  later,  than  when  un- 
flinching courage  and  the  habit  of  unquestioning  obedi- 
ence carried  them  blindly  to  that  maelstrom  of  death. 

Unknown  to  each  other  they  had  met  in  the  last 
charge  of  the  cuirassiers,  and  the  English  dragoon  had 
felled  du  Mont  who  mercifully  knew  nothing  of  the 
sublime  charge  and  utter  destruction  of  the  Imperial 
Guard  which  turned  the  battle  into  the  rout  of  the 
French. 

Like  the  disintegration  of  a  giant  glacier  splitting 
under  the  weight  of  its  mighty  mass — then  toppling 
and  crashing  into  the  sea — the  entire  French  army 
collapsed  simultaneously,  scattering  helter-skelter  in 
precipitate  flight. 

"Sauve  qui  pent,  tout  est  perdu!"  was  the  final  order 
of  Napoleon,  wrung  from  him  in  his  despair. 

In  vain  Ney  leapt  upon  a  horse,  hatless  and  sword- 
less,  and  barred  the  Brussels  road,  striving  to  recall  the 
remaining  soldiers  to  their  duty;  they  fled  in  terror — 
the  rout  only  halted  at  the  frontier. 

The  mad  tide  of  the  flight  had  rolled  far  away, 
leaving  the  battlefield  deserted  except  by  the  dying 
and  dead. 


Waterloo  359 

For  hours  Captain  Walters  had  lain  with  a  dislocated 
shoulder  beneath  the  body  of  his  dead  horse.  In  intense 
agony  he  dragged  himself  free  and  staggered  to  his  feet. 
Staring  dazedly  about  he  scanned  the  valley  in  search  of 
Hougomont.  There  it  loomed,  a  straggling  mass  of 
burning  ruins  and  battered  wall. 

Fire  no  longer  belched  from  the  loop-holes  which  the 
British  soldiers  had  made ;  bodies  of  men  and  horses  lay 
thickly  strewn  in  the  wood,  which  had  been  swept  by 
fierce  cannonade;  all  was  silence  and  desolation. 

Walters  pushed  rapidly  forward  through  the  wood, 
thinned  and  shattered  by  the  French  artillery,  and 
entered  the  orchard  where  hundreds  of  men  and  horses 
lay  piled  one  upon  another,  friend  and  foe  in  a  last 
bloody  embrace.  Consumed  by  thirst  he  threaded  his 
way  to  the  well  in  the  courtyard  and  drank  feverishly. 
Within  the  kitchen  the  floor  was  covered  with  men  more 
desperately  wounded  than  himself,  awaiting  the  surgeon. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  court  in  an  isolated  position 
stood  the  pigeonnier ,  an  extinguisher-roofed  tower, 
pierced  by  hundreds  of  tiny  openings. 

Walters  recalled  what  Huguette  had  told  him  of  her 
swift  carriers.  Here  was  an  opportunity  of  sending  her 
a  message,  perhaps  of  being  the  first  to  announce  the 
victory  in  Brussels.  He  entered  and,  climbing  a  ladder, 
inspected  the  boxes.  Except  for  peeping  fledglings  the 
nests  were  deserted  by  the  frightened  birds. 

Returning  to  the  courtyard  he  stumbled  upon  the 


360  Old  Belgium 

prostrate  body  of  a  wounded  cuirassier.  His  helmet 
had  fallen  off  and  blood  trickled  from  an  ugly  gash 
upon  his  forehead.  In  one  hand  he  held  a  folded  paper, 
the  other  tightly  clutched  a  live  pigeon. 

"Camarade"  he  murmured  huskily,  "do  me  the 
kindness  to  fasten  this  billet  beneath  the  wing  of  this 
pigeon.    The  cursed  blood  blinds  my  eyes." 

"First,  let  me  bandage  your  wound, "  replied  Walters, 
and  he  knotted  his  handkerchief  about  the  man's  fore- 
head, drawing  it  taut  with  his  teeth,  as  he  could  use  but 
one  hand.  He  poured  some  brandy  down  the  throat  of 
the  cuirassier  who  revived  temporarily.  "Thanks  my 
friend,  but  you  also  are  wounded, "  he  said. 

"If  you  have  sufficient  strength  to  brace  yourself 
and  hold  my  arm,"  replied  Walters,  "I  think  we  can 
jerk  the  bone  into  its  socket." 

"Then  hold  you  the  pigeon, "  replied  the  other,  "and 
I  will  do  my  best."  He  summoned  all  his  strength,  the 
sweat  stood  on  Walter's  forehead  but  he  uttered  no  sound 
and  the  arm  was  in  place.  But  the  effort  had  been  too 
much  for  the  cuirassier  and  he  sank  back  unconscious. 

Walters  picked  up  the  billet;  its  address,  traced  in 
blood,  burned  itself  into  his  brain : 

Mademoiselle  Huguette  de  Goumont, 
rue  Fosse  aux  Loups.     Brussels. 

What  could  this  mean?  One  thing  only,  that  his 
betrothed  had  given  to  another,  an  enemy,  the  same 


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Waterloo  361 

means  of  communicating  with  her  which  she  had  con- 
fided to  him.  In  his  excitement  he  relaxed  his  hold 
upon  the  pigeon,  and  with  a  whirr  of  wings  it  soared 
aloft. 

With  sword  half  drawn  Walters  turned  to  the  cuiras- 
sier. He  lay  stark  and  white,  but  smiled  with  the 
serenity  of  sleep.  The  dragoon's  sabre  slipped  back  into 
its  scabbard  with  a  gentle  thud. 

"I  will  take  your  missive  to  Huguette, "  he  said,  as 
he  looked  pityingly  down  upon  the  young  Frenchman. 
He  thrust  it  into  his  belt  and  strove  to  rise.  A  sudden 
darkness  drifted  over  him.  He  staggered  for  a  moment 
then  fell,  his  head  upon  the  breast  of  his  wounded 
enemy. 

Swift  through  the  night  the  liberated  pigeon  winged 
to  its  dovecote  in  Huguette's  garden  at  Brussels. 
There  she  discovered  it  the  next  morning  and,  as  she 
searched  in  vain  for  a  letter,  noticed  that  though  the 
bird  was  not  injured  its  wings  were  dabbled  with  blood. 

"Your  brother  is  wounded,"  she  cried,  running  to 
Eleanor,  forgetting  her  girlhood  when  with  Cousin 
Antoine  she  had  played  pigeon-post  at  Hougomont. 

Refugees  began  to  come  in  with  rumours  of  the  battle, 
but  no  one  could  tell  with  certainty  which  side  had 
conquered.  The  Duchess  of  Richmond  fitted  up  her 
ball-room  as  a  temporary  hospital  and  the  two  girls 
volunteered  their  aid.    In  the  evening  a  farmer's  cart 


362  Old  Belgium 

brought,  stretched  upon  straw,  the  first  harvest  of  that 
terrible  reaping.  Later  came  wounded  from  the  field- 
hospital  of  Hougomont. 

Captain  Walters  woke  from  torturing  dreams  to  see 
bending  over  him  the  pitiful  face  of  Huguette.  With 
the  first  recognition  the  old  love-light  flashed  for  an 
instant  in  his  calm  grey  eyes.  Then  his  face  shadowed 
as  he  placed  in  her  hand  the  letter  from  the  French 
cuirassier.  He  scanned  Huguette 's  countenance  ques- 
tioningly;  but  instead  of  flushing  guiltily  she  smiled 
upon  him  with  delight. 

"Oh!  the  merciful  Bon  Dieu  who  protected  him!" 
she  cried.    "How  happy  this  will  make  Eleanor!" 

"Eleanor?"  he  echoed  wonderingly. 

"Look,  dearest,"  and  Huguette  unfolded  the  paper, 
blank,  except  for  the  superscription,  but  containing 
another  slip  addressed :  "Mademoiselle  Eleanor  Walters. 
In  the  care  of  Ma  Cousine  Huguette'1 

1 '  What ! ' '  exclaimed  Walters,  ' '  Nell  in  correspondence 
with  the  enemy?" 

"You,  a  victor,  can  afford  to  be  generous,"  pleaded 
Huguette;  "besides,  Jack,  he  is  my  cousin."  Then, 
catching  sight  of  Nellie,  she  ran  to  her  with  the  missive. 

"Antoine  lies  in  our  hospital,"  Nellie  replied. 
"Come  quickly.    They  say  that  he  is  dying. " 

Brain  fever  developed.  For  days  du  Mont  fought 
over,  in  his  delirium,  the  battle  of  Waterloo.  When  at 
last  the  tide  turned  to  recovery  his  first  conscious  glance 


Waterloo  363 

fell  upon  the  face  of  Eleanor  transfigured  by  a  great 
thankfulness.    "Et  le  pigeon  ?  "  he  asked 

"I  have  your  letter,"  replied  Eleanor,  "my  brother 
brought  it  me.    He  is  here,  love." 

Walters  came  to  the  bedside,  his  arm  in  a  sling, 
fatigue  coat  thrown  over  his  shoulder.  The  cuirassier 
regarded  him  intently.  Suddenly  his  wan  face  purpled 
to  hate.  He  strove  to  spring  from  his  pallet,  but 
strength  failed  him. 

"Sacre  Anglais!"  he  cried.  "It  was  you  who  cleft 
my  skull!" 

"Think  again,  friend,  where  you  last  saw  my  face. 
It  was  at  Hougomont  where  you  put  into  its  socket  my 
dislocated  arm." 

"Antoine, "  exclaimed  Eleanor.  "You  did  this,  not 
knowing  that  he  was  my  brother ! " 

The  knotted  features  of  the  cuirassier  relaxed 
gradually  into  a  boyish  smile  as  he  understood.  "  Mon 
Frhre"  he  murmured,  clasping  fervently  the  hand  of 
the  dragoon,  "Mon  Frere,  &  ntoi!" 

in 

WATERLOO,  SIXTY  YEARS  AFTER 

"Sacre  Tonnerre  de  Dieu!"  shouted  the  old  cuiras- 
sier, bringing  his  fist  down  with  a  bang  that  nearly 
broke  the  glasses.  "If  it  had  not  been  for  that  hidden, 
sunken  road  we  would  have  hacked  you  British  all  to 
pieces." 


364  Old  Belgium 

1 '  Undoubtedly,  my  friend  du  Mont, ' '  said  his  interlocu- 
tor soothingly,  a  white-haired  veteran  of  Waterloo,  Major 
Walters,  formerly  a  captain  in  Somerset's  Dragoons. 

"Besides,"  resumed  the  French  invalide,  somewhat 
mollified,  "if  it  had  not  rained  all  night,  and  our  artillery 
had  been  able  to  manoeuvre,  instead  of  floundering 
axle-deep  in  the  mire,  and  Marshal  Grouchy  had  not 
been  delayed,  alors. " 

"If — if,"  interrupted  the  Englishman,  at  length 
aroused  from  his  mood  of  courteous  acquiescence. 
"If — there  you  are  again  with  those  eternal  ifs." 

"Well  then,  sacred  name  of  a  cabbage!  you  very  well 
know  that  we  outnumbered  you  and  that  Wellington 
retreated,  scared  as  a  schoolboy. " 

"You  mean  the  affair  of  the  Plateau,"  laughed  the 
dragoon;  "why  that  was  only  a  ruse  to  draw  you  into 
the  mouths  of  our  artillery." 

"If  it  was  a  ruse,  which  I  doubt,  not  implying  the 
least  insinuation  on  your  veracity,  my  very  dear  friend," 
apologized  Colonel  du  Mont,  "we  were  not  slow  to  rush 
into  the  trap." 

It  was  in  the  garden  of  the  Invalides  at  Paris,  shortly 
after  the  Franco-Prussian  war,  that  this  spirited  though 
friendly  altercation  took  place.  The  two  old  cavalry- 
men, erstwhile  foes,  but  long  since  brothers-in-law  and 
the  best  of  friends,  were  fighting  over  for  the  twentieth 
time  the  battle  of  Waterloo. 


Waterloo  365 

"It  was  like  this,"  exclaimed  the  cuirassier,  tracing 
with  his  cane  in  the  gravel  a  letter  A. 

"This  left  leg  is  the  road  to  Nivelles,  the  right,  that 
to  Genappe,  this  cross-bar  is  the  sunken  road,  vous 
voyez.  The  point  is  Mont  St.  Jean,  where  Wellington 
ambushed  himself,  the  left  foot,  Hougomont,  and  the 
right  Belle  Alliance,  where  Napoleon  was  stationed. 
The  wings  of  both  armies  extended  to  right  and  left  of 
the  legs  of  the  letter.  Wellington,  the  fox,  had  well 
studied  the  field  of  battle  and  occupied  a  high  wooded 
plateau  where  he  could  conceal  his  artillery. 

"Napoleon,  on  the  contrary,  was  badly  posted,  in  low 
and  unfavourable  ground.  His  plan  of  battle,  however, 
was,  you  must  confess,  a  veritable  chef-d'ceuvre.  To 
effect  a  breach  in  the  centre  of  the  Allies'  line,  cutting 
them  in  two,  driving  the  British  back  on  Hal,  the 
Prussians  on  Tongres,  thus  separating  Wellington  and 
Blucher,  to  carry  Mont  St.  Jean  and  seize  Brussels,  to 
hurl  the  German  into  the  Rhine,  the  British  into  the 
sea.    This  was  Napoleon '  s  plan . ' ' 

"You  must  admit  that  the  English  carried  themselves 
well  at  Hougomont, "  interrupted  Walters. 

"Mais  out,"  replied  the  cuirassier,  "that  chateau 
was  a  veritable  fort." 

"In  the  dismantled  chambers  of  that  old  chateau," 
added  the  dragoon,  four  companies  of  guards  withstood, 
for  seven  hours,  the  fury  of  an  army;  and  from  its 
casements   and   spiral   staircase   poured   upon   you   a 


366  Old  Belgium 

deadly  fire.  'Twas  there,  my  friend,  I  found  you  lying 
at  the  door  of  the  pigeonnier,  and  you  jerked  my  arm 
into  place — do  you  remember?" 

"I  remember!  I  risked  my  life  for  a  sacre  little  beast 
of  a  pigeon  to  send  your  sister  a  message.  She  was 
worth  it,  mon  ami,  a  good  wife  was  Nellie,  'twas  not  her 
fault  that  she  was  an  Anglaise.  Oh!  but  the  fighting  in 
the  garden  had  been  magnificent !  It  was  there  that  six 
French  infantrymen,  concealed  in  the  currant-bushes, 
resisted  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  two  Hanoverian  com- 
panies, and  fifteen  hundred  men  fell  in  less  than  an  hour. 
Oui,  mon  ami,  c'etait  bien  terrible." 

"Do  you  remember  the  well  in  the  courtyard?" asked 
Walters. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  cuirassier,  "that  well  was  a 
sepulchre.  Three  hundred  corpses  were  cast  therein — 
if,  indeed,  they  were  all  dead." 

"But  tell  me  more  in  detail,"  said  the  white-haired 
major,  "your  reasons  for  believing  that  Napoleon  might 
have  won." 

"All  that  night,"  resumed  the  Colonel,  "it  rained, 
and  puddles  lay  in  the  hollows  like  ponds.  The  artillery 
carriages  were  buried  up  to  the  hubs  and  the  horses  well- 
nigh  mired.  Napoleon  waited  vainly  for  the  sun  to  dry 
the  soil  so  that  he  could  move  his  batteries  freely.  But 
the  sun  did  not  appear.  The  Emperor  began  action  by 
hurling  the  brigade  of  Quiot  on  La  Haye  Sainte  while 
Ney  advanced  the  French  right  against  the  English  left. 


Waterloo  367 

"Napoleon's  attack  on  Hougomont  was  in  the  nature 
of  a  feint.  He  purposed  to  draw  Wellington  thither  in 
order  to  make  him  swerve  to  the  left.  The  plan  would 
have  succeeded  but  for  the  heroic  defence  of  the  English 
guards  and  Perponcher's  valiant  Belgians." 

"In  the  main  his  plan  was  successful,"  observed 
Walters.  "You  took  Papelotte  and  carried  La  Haye 
Sainte." 

"But,  afterwards,"  said  the  cuirassier,  "the  battle 
wavered." 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  replied  Walters,  "about  four 
o'clock  the  English  army  was  in  a  bad  way.  Picton 
of  the  left  was  dead,  a  bullet  through  the  head.  La  Haye 
Sainte  was  taken,  but  Hougomont,  though  burning,  still 
held  heroically.  Three  thousand  men  fell  in  the  defence 
of  the  former,  and  only  forty-two  survived.  All  the 
officers  were  killed  or  captured.  The  Scots  Greys  were 
wiped  out.  Ponsonby's  great  dragoons  were  hacked  to 
pieces  and  our  leader  riddled  with  lance  thrusts.  Gor- 
don was  dead.  Marsh  dead  and  the  fifth  and  sixth 
divisions  annihilated.  Wellington,  anxious  but  im- 
passive, sat  on  horseback  before  the  Mill  of  Mont  Saint 
Jean.  Behind  was  the  village,  in  front  the  slope. 
Masked  behind  hawthorn  hedges,  through  which  poked 
the  noses  of  their  cannon,  our  artillery  was  ambushed 
in  the  brushwood;  while  a  battalion  of  Kempt 's  brigade 
was  hidden  in  a  wheat  field  near  by.  Wellington,  the 
bullets  falling  about  him  like  rain,  shouted  to  Clinton, 


368  Old  Belgium 

'Hold  this  spot  to  the  last  man,'  and  at  four  o'clock, 
dislodged  by  your  shells  and  bullets,  our  line  drew  back 
toward  Mont  Saint  Jean,  leaving  only  the  artillery  and 
sharpshooters." 

""Tis  the  beginning  of  retreat!'  Napoleon  said,  little 
knowing  the  trap  you  had  prepared,"  resumed  du 
Mont,  his  face  lighting  with  excitement.  "All  night 
long  Napoleon  had  not  slept.  Exploring  on  horseback 
the  line  of  outposts,  he  halted  from  time  to  time  to  talk 
to  the  sentinels.  'That  little  Wellington  needs  a 
lesson,'  he  said  to  me  shortly  before  dawn  when  the 
storm  was  at  its  worst.  At  five  o'clock  a  Belgian 
deserter  brought  word  that  the  enemy  was  drawn  up 
for  battle. 

"  'So  much  the  better,'  laughed  the  Emperor.  Soon 
after,  seated  on  a  peasant's  chair  before  a  kitchen  table, 
he  unrolled  a  map  of  the  battlefield.  'A  pretty  checker- 
board, mon  ami, '  he  exclaimed.  At  eight  o'clock  break- 
fast was  served,  during  which  it  was  rumoured  that 
Wellington  had,  two  nights  before,  been  to  a  ball  at  the 
Duchess  of  Richmond's. 

'"The  ball  will  take  place  today,'  I  remarked  ironi- 
cally. 

"After  breakfast  the  Emperor  rested  for  a  time  then 
dictated  to  us  the  order  of  battle.  At  nine  o'clock,  the 
whole  French  army  deployed  and  ranged  itself  in  battle 
array.    Napoleon  smiled. 

"  The  stubborn  defence  of  Hougomont,  the  resistance 


Waterloo  369 

of  La  Haye  Sainte,  Ney's  fatal  error  in  massing  his  men 
before  the  English  grape-shot,  Vieux  wounded,  Mar- 
cognel's  cavalry  put  to  the  sword,  Grouchy 's  ominous 
delay — all  this  did  not  suffice  to  undermine  Napoleon's 
belief  in  his  infallibility.  When  Wellington  gave  way 
I  saw  the  Emperor  rise  in  his  stirrups,  turn  and  dis- 
patch a  message  to  Paris  that  the  battle  was  won." 

"In  point  of  fact,  however,"  interrupted  the  Major, 
"the  supposed  retreat  of  the  Iron  Duke  was  only  a  ruse. 
He  was  hiding  and  rallying  our  men.  But  'the  Sunken 
Road, '  my  friend,  tell  me  of  that  disastrous  charge." 

"We  were  stretched  out  for  nearly  a  mile,  twenty-six 
squadrons  of  horse,  comprising  thirty-five  hundred  men, 
armed  with  casque  and  cuirass,  pistol  and  sabre,  de- 
ployed in  battle  line,  an  impenetrable  wall  of  steel, 
silent  but  alive  with  eagerness.  On  a  sudden,  an  aide- 
de-camp  galloped  up,  placing  in  the  hand  of  Marshal 
Ney  an  order: 

"'Carry  Mont  Saint  Jean. 

" '  Napoleon.' 

I  distinctly  remember  how  the  hoofs  of  his  charger 
threw  off  great  chunks  of  mud  as  he  splashed  through 
the  quagmire.  Surging  and  undulating  like  a  tidal 
wave,  we  burst  into  simultaneous  motion. 

"With  upraised  sabres  and  flowing  standards,  through 
a  storm  of  grape-shot  and  musketry,  we  galloped 
fearlessly  up  the  slope  toward  the  tableland  of  Mont 

*4 


370  Old  Belgium 

Saint  Jean.  Behind  the  crest  of  the  plateau,  the  British 
infantry,  drawn  up  in  solid  squares,  waited  silent  and 
immovable.  Shouting  Vive  VEmpereur!  our  cuirassiers 
charged  up  the  hill  at  full  gallop.  Suddenly,  as  we 
arrived  at  the  very  crest,  we  saw,  between  us  and 
the  British,  just  beneath  our  horses  feet,  a  yawning 
ravine. 

"  It  was  the  Sunken  Road  of  Ohain.  Crashing,  rear- 
ing plunging,  unable  to  withstand  the  momentum  of 
the  onrush,  we  fell,  horse  and  man,  into  the  inexorable 
trench.  Our  second  rank  pushed  our  first  forward,  the 
third  thrust  forward  the  second,  until  the  road  was  a 
seething  mass  of  horses  and  men,  over  which  those 
behind  trampled  and  marched  on.  Decimated  but  not 
disheartened  by  the  disaster  of  the  sunken  road,  our 
remnant  of  cuirassiers  hurled  themselves  upon  the 
British  squares. 

"With  swords  in  our  teeth,  pistols  in  fist,  galloping 
like  Valkyries,  we  assailed  the  impassive  Englishmen, 
whose  front  rank,  kneeling,  plunged  their  bayonets 
into  the  bellies  of  our  rearing  horses.  Their  second  rank 
shot  us  down,  while  behind  them  the  cannoneers  poured 
upon  us  great  volleys  of  grape." 

"Had  it  not  been  for  the  sunken  road,"  interrupted 
Walters,  "you  might  have  turned  the  issue.  As  it  was 
you  annihilated  seven  squares  out  of  thirteen  and  cap- 
tured sixty  pieces  of  ordnance  and  six  British  flags. 
'Twas    then    Wellington    bethought    himself    of    his 


Waterloo  37 1 

cavalry.     Attacking  the  cuirassiers  from  the  rear  he 
drove  them  against  Somerset  and  our  dragoons." 

"Then,"  said  du  Mont,  "in  a  whirlwind  charge  we 
slaughtered  half  of  your  unconquerable  dragoons  and 
their  brave  commander.  The  plateau  of  Mont  Saint 
Jean  was  taken,  lost  and  retaken.  Ney  had  four  horses 
shot  beneath  him.  After  two  hours'  fighting  the 
greater  part  of  our  cuirassiers  lay  stretched  on  the 
plain." 

It  was  in  vain  that  Walters  had  striven  to  restrain 
the  old  invalide.    His  blood  was  up. 

"I  remember,"  he  cried,  "I  was  singing:  Allots, 
Enfants  de  la  Patrie,  Lejour  de  gloire " 

He  sang  now  in  a  high  pitched  voice,  brandishing  his 
cane  like  a  sabre  and  straddling  his  chair. 

"And  then,"  he  cried,  "as  my  horse  sprang  over 
my  dead  comrades — thou — damned  Englishman,  didst 
bar  my  way.  I  raised  my  arm  to  strike  but  thy  sword 
was  stronger  than  mine." 

His  face  was  livid,  the  old  cicatrice  seamed  it  like  a 
white  gash.  He  struck  at  his  friend,  then  reeling  in  his 
imaginary  saddle,  toppled  and  fell,  crying:  "  Vive  la 
France!  Vive  V  Empereur — Vive " 

1815-1914 

Where  crashed  the  cuirassiers  in  that  dread  heap 

And  rallied  Orange  his  reluctant  bands; 

Cast  from  French  guns,  a  monster  lion  stands, 


372  Old  Belgium 

While  on  the  plain,  there  graze  contented  sheep 
And  joyous  peasants  now  the  harvests  reap, 
At  Waterloo — Peace  broodeth  o'er  the  lands 
Where,  fivescore  years  agone,  War's  vengeful  hands 
Sent  countless  victims  down  to  ceaseless  sleep. 

The  wide  champaign  is  fair  with  blossoms  red, 

Serenely  white,  the  moon  wanes  overhead, 

The  starry  sentries  pace  their  silent  round, 

Hearken !    Once  more  the  sullen  thunders  sound, 

The  heavens  are  rent  with  cannonade  afar, 

Hell's  Huns,  on  Belgium,  loose  their  hounds  of  War! 


CHAPTER  XI 

BLOOD  KINDRED 

I 

OUT  OF  A  CLEAR   SKY 

IT  was  in  the  blood!  Harry  Walters,  only  son  of 
*  Major  Anthony  du  Mont  Walters,  of  Balaklava 
and  Sepoy  Rebellion  fame,  grandson  of  Captain  John 
Walters,  who  distinguished  himself  at  Waterloo,  could 
no  more  have  kept  out  of  the  fighting  than  a  duck  out 
of  water. 

Rivals  on  the  crews  of  Harvard  and  Yale  we  were 
chums  now,  off  on  a  short  vacation.  Like  a  long  line 
of  my  Winthrop  forbears,  was  a  surgeon,  and  had  been 
taking  a  post-graduate  course  at  the  Ecole  de  Mede- 
cine  in  Paris.  Harry,  who  carried  off  honours  at  Shef- 
field, was  now  a  mechanical  engineer  specializing  in 
structural  engineering.  Every  machine  was  for  him  a 
fascinating  toy,  his  latest  an  Antoinette  monoplane,  in 
which  we  were  now  skimming  over  the  beautiful  Ar- 
dennes in  the  lazy  days  of  August. 

We  were  halfway  across  Luxembourg  when  the  first 

373 


374  Old  Belgium 

premonition  of  the  approaching  invasion  dawned  upon 
us.  Flying  over  a  range  of  screening  hills  we  saw,  as  far 
as  the  eye  could  reach,  platoons  of  marching  men  and, 
alternately  revealed  and  hidden  by  clouds  of  dust, 
squadron  upon  squadron  of  Prussian  cavalry! 

"Can  you  beat  that!"  I  exclaimed  irrelevantly. 

"I'll  try,  old  man,"  Harry  replied.  "Here's  for  the 
nearest  telegraph  station  to  send  the  alarm  to  Liege." 

We  scudded  back  like  a  leaf  before  a  tempest. 
Already  the  spires  of  Liege  were  visible,  when  suddenly 
we  discerned,  conspicuous  on  the  white  highway,  a  grey 
touring-car  dashing  eastward  and  exceeding  the  speed 
limit  even  for  country  roads. 

We  were  flying  low  and,  discerning  us,  its  occupants, 
two  men  in  civilian  garb,  stopped  as  we  flew  over  and 
studied  us  intently  through  field-glasses.  Then  one  of 
them  levelled  a  rifle ;  there  was  a  puff  of  smoke,  a  de- 
tonation, our  engine  stopped  short,  and  the  monoplane 
staggered  in  its  flight. 

Skilfully  Harry  volplaned  into  a  ploughed  field  where 
the  touring-car  could  not  follow.  We  spied  a  hut  near 
at  hand  and,  dashing  for  it  under  a  rain  of  bullets,  found 
ourselves  in  an  abandoned  smithy.  Supporting  its 
unhinged  door  against  sacks  of  coke,  we  entrenched 
ourselves  behind  the  rude  barricade.  Our  only  weapons 
were  Harry's  revolver  and  my  rifle.  Our  assailants 
continued  to  fire  but  their  shots  went  wild.  We  waited 
patiently,  saving  our  ammunition. 


Blood  Kindred  375 

Attaching  a  handkerchief  to  a  cane  they  jumped 
from  the  car  and  came  toward  us,  waving  a  flag  of  truce. 
Halfway  across  the  field  they  stopped  and  the  leader 
shouted : ' '  It's  all  our  mistake.  I'll  explain.  Come  out ; 
we  won't  hurt  you." 

Laying  down  his  automatic,  Harry  went  confidently 
up  to  the  stranger.    ' '  Why  did  you  fire  on  us  ?  "  he  asked. 

"We  took  you  for  German  spies,"  the  other  replied, 
holding  out  his  hand  in  a  friendly  manner. 

Harry  laughed.    "Shake  hands, "  he  said. 

Quick  as  a  flash  the  fellow's  hand  slipped  to  his  hip 
pocket.  A  shot  rang  out.  Striking  the  revolver  from  his 
hand  Harry  sprang  upon  him. 

At  the  same  time  the  chauffeur  rushed  to  the  assist- 
ance of  his  chief.  I  fired,  saw  him  clap  his  hand  to  his 
cheek,  run  back  to  the  automobile,  and  drive  rapidly 
away.  Then,  as  I  turned  to  Harry,  his  man  wrenched 
himself  free  and  was  off  across  the  field. 

With  a  bound  Harry  was  after  him,  gripping  the 
scoundrel  above  the  knees,  in  as  pretty  a  diving  tackle 
as  ever  I  saw  on  a  football  field.  Down  he  whirled,  his 
head  striking  a  stone,  and  collapsed  limp  and  senseless. 

Beside  him  fluttered  a  paper,  a  maze  of  apparently 
meaningless  hieroglyphics.  "Look  at  this!"  Harry 
cried  exultantly.     "It  is  a  German  cipher  code." 

"Keep  it,"  I  counselled.  "This  may  come  in 
handy." 

Dragging  our  prisoner  to  the  smithy,  we  bound  him 


376  Old  Belgium 

hand  and  foot  with  a  halter.  Then,  lifting  the  door 
onto  its  hinges,  we  piled  bags  of  coke  against  it  and 
left  him  muttering  obscene  German  oaths. 

"There,  I  guess  he  won't  make  any  more  row,"  said 
Harry  complacently.  "Now  let's  see  what  we  can 
do  to  fix  our  monoplane."  After  an  hour's  work  we 
managed  to  repair  damages,  planed  toward  a  village, 
and  alighted  in  a  meadow,  leaving  the  monoplane  behind 
some  willows  which  bordered  a  beautiful  stream.  Here 
we  rested,  gazing  across  the  valley  to  a  beetling  cliff 
on  which  was  perched  a  turreted  chateau.  Crossing  a 
foot-bridge  near  this  point  we  hastened  on  to  telegraph 
Liege  the  approach  of  the  Germans. 

As  we  threaded  the  shadowy  forest,  mists  rose  purple 
and  cool,  thrushes  trilled  in  the  coverts,  and  the  wind 
strummed  in  the  pines.  We  drank  deep  draughts  of  the 
balsam-scented  air. 

A  moment  later,  rounding  a  turn  in  the  road,  a  pair 
of  runaway  cobs,  dragging  a  phaeton,  galloped  furiously 
toward  us.  As  they  neared,  I  caught  sight  of  a  woman, 
wide-eyed  with  fright,  still  pluckily  straining  at  the 
reins. 

Harry  sprang  to  the  bits,  I,  into  the  phaeton,  and, 
grasping  the  reins,  gradually  pulled  the  pair  down  to  a 
walk. 

Soothing  her  high-spirited  pets  with  caresses,  the  lady 
overwhelmed  Harry  with  her  thanks.  "It  is  not  their 
fault,  for  they  are  the  gentlest  creatures, "  she  protested. 


Blood  Kindred  377 

"Some  boors  rushed  by  us  in  a  grey  touring-car,  and 
almost  took  the  wheels  from  my  phaeton.  But  for 
your  assistance  I  might  have  been  killed." 

There  was  not  a  tremor  in  her  resolute  voice,  which 
had  a  strangely  deep  and  delicate  quality.  Harry 
regarded  her  fixedly;  noting  every  feature  of  her  dis- 
tinguished face  and  bearing,  every  detail  of  her  tailor- 
made  costume,  from  the  crisp  white  stock  to  her 
perfectly  fitting  driving  gloves — an  up-to-date  militant 
maid,  though  none  the  less  daintily  feminine. 

"It  was  nothing,"  he  replied,  "but  you  are  a  trifle 
pale,  may  I  not  drive  you  home?" 

"Not  home, "  she  said,  "but  to  the  railway  station.  I 
have  had  two  frights  today  and  it  is  beginning  to  get 
on  my  nerves." 

"It  happens  that  we  are  also  on  our  way  to  the 
station, "  Harry  replied. 

At  the  word  "we,"  she  became  for  the  first  time 
conscious  of  my  presence.  "Then  may  I  not  give  you 
both  a  lift?"  she  asked,  and,  as  we  accepted  the 
proffered  courtesy:  "Tell  me,  have  either  of  you  ob- 
served anything  which  would  lead  you  to  think  that 
the  German  army  is  about  to  invade  this  region?" 

"At  the  risk  of  alarming  you  again — we  have";  and 
Harry  told  her  of  our  adventure. 

"Then  he  spoke  the  truth,"  she  exclaimed;  "an  old 
acquaintance,  Baron  von  Derbitz,  called  upon  me  to- 
day and  threatened  that  I  would  soon  appeal  to  him  for 


378  Old  Belgium 

protection.  I  shall  leave  for  Brussels  tomorrow.  My 
father  always  predicted  that  we  would  come  to  grips 
again  with  Germany;  and  insisted  that  I  should  be 
prepared  to  do  my  part.  I  have  taken  three  years  of 
training  and  shall  be  a  Red  Cross  nurse.  " 

"That  is  a  fine  spirit,"  I  remarked,  for  Harry  only 
looked  his  approval. 

"It  is  the  spirit  of  all  French  and  Belgian  women," 
she  said  simply. 

At  the  ticket-office,  she  asked  for  reservations  on  the 
morning's  express.  The  station-master  was  troubled. 
It  would  probably  be  all  right  tomorrow;  no  trains  had 
come  through  today. 

"You  will  dine  with  me  tonight  at  the  chateau," 
she  said,  and,  with  a  cordial  au  revoir,  drove  rapidly 
away. 

"Here's  a  pretty  kettle  of  fish,"  I  said  to  Harry,  as 
he  turned  upon  me  his  enraptured  face.  "We  have 
accepted  an  invitation  from  we  don't  know  whom,  to 
a  chateau  we  don't  know  where!" 

"Don't  be  flippant,  Winthrop,"  he  replied,  and 
applied  himself  to  his  telegraphing. 

The  operator  rattled  her  keys,  then  cried  in  dismay: 
"I  can't  get  Liege.  The  wires  must  be  down.  It's  odd 
too,  for  I  sent  a  message  on  that  line  this  afternoon  for 
a  German  gentleman.  Such  a  funny  message,  I  couldn't 
understand  it  all." 

"  Do  you  happen  to  remember  it?  "  asked  Harry. 


Blood  Kindred  379 

"Why  yes,  I  wrote  it  down.    What  do  you  think  of 
that  ? ' '    Harry  read : 
"To  General  von  Altenberg,  Stavelot. 

"Four  melons,  two  peaches,  and  a  bunch  of  grapes. 
Melons  contain  4000  seeds,  peaches  500,  grapes  1000. 

"Signed  von  Derbitz." 

"Is  it  a  joke?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  replied  Harry,  "the  Germans  will  be  here  to- 
morrow.   You  had  better  get  out." 

As  he  spoke,  an  ominous  rumbling  to  the  north  rever- 
berated in  our  ears.  "That's  artillery,"  he  said. 
"They  are  bombarding  Liege!  We  must  make  a  dash 
for  Waldsteen  and  warn  the  Countess  Antoinette." 

"How  the  devil  did  you  find  out  her  name? "  I  asked. 

"From  the  telegraph  operator.  Sprint,  man!"  he 
exclaimed,  and  was  off. 

As  we  neared  the  park  gate,  a  man  slunk  toward  us 
from  the  shadows,  "For  the  love  of  God  do  not  enter," 
he  stammered,  "the  place  is  live  with  Germans." 

"Is  the  Countess  safe?"  Harry  asked  hoarsely. 

"Yes,  but  she  is  a  prisoner  in  her  own  apartment. 
General  von  Altenberg  has  requisitioned  the  chateau  as 
his  headquarters.  I  am  her  chauffeur.  She  sent  me  to 
warn  you." 

"Can  you  carry  back  a  message? " 

"No,  Monsieur,  I  am  dismissed.  Mademoiselle  is 
served  by  orderlies.  Her  suite  has  no  outer  door  and  its 
windows  look  sheer  down  the  precipice  to  the  river." 


380  Old  Belgium 

11  Is  that  side  of  the  chateau  guarded?" 

"No,  Monsieur,  it  is  unapproachable." 

"But  someone  in  a  small  boat  might  row  close  to  the 
foundations." 

"And  then?" 

"  Is  there  such  a  thing  as  a  rope-ladder  in  the  village?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur,  at  the  Fire  Department." 

"  Can't  you  get  it  to  the  Countess  in  some  way?  " 

"No,  but  the  Germans  have  ordered  beer.  I  could 
help  the  brewer's  man  unload,  and  fasten  the  rope- 
ladder  at  the  wine-cave." 

"Good,  and  thence  one  can  surely  reach  the  apart- 
ment of  the  Countess." 

The  man  shrugged.  "From  the  wine-cave  there  is 
a  staircase  to  the  kitchen-cellars  and  to  the  butler's 
pantry.  Then  Monsieur  turns  to  the  left  and  along 
the  corridor  to  the  grand  staircase,  above  which  is  the 
Countess's  suite.  But  it  is  always  locked,  and  the 
General's  secretary,  Baron  von  Derbitz,  keeps  the  key." 

That  night  we  unmoored  a  boat  and  drifted  down  to 
the  chateau.  The  moon  glimpsed  from  cloud  rifts  and 
showed  us  the  rope-ladder.  But  to  our  great  discomfi- 
ture, the  lowest  rung  swung  several  feet  above  Harry's 
head.  I  rose  to  my  full  height  and  raised  him  on  my 
shoulders.  With  a  lithe  spring  he  covered  the  remain- 
ing interval,  grasped  the  ladder,  and  went  up  hand 
over  hand  like  a  monkey. 

He  entered  the  lower  cave  and  I  waited,  restraining 


"  Upon  a  lofty  cliff  perched  a  turreted  chateau" 

From  a  copyright  photograph  by  Underwood  &  Underwood,  X.  V, 


"  Great  peace  is  over  Hougomont  " 


"  Idle  barges  and  laborious  windmills  " 

From  a  copyright  photograph  by  Underwood  &  Underwood,  N.  Y. 


Blood  Kindred  381 

an  intense  desire  to  smoke.  I  was  congratulating  myself 
that  the  most  difficult  part  of  our  undertaking  was  ac- 
complished, when  I  heard  a  sudden  scuffle,  a  maddened 
shriek,  and  a  muffled  thud.  Someone  had  been  done  for, 
but  whether  Harry  or  his  assailant  I  could  not  tell. 

The  minutes  lagged  like  hours.  Throttling  his  man, 
Harry  mounted  a  rock-hewn  stairway  to  the  upper  cave. 
Threading  murky,  tortuous  chambers,  he  finally  groped 
his  way  upward  to  the  basement.  Roistering  songs  of 
drunken  revellers  rang  out  as  he  tiptoed  past  the  ban- 
queting hall.  Someone  lurched  against  him  in  the  dark, 
but  he  slipped  on  as  noiselessly  as  a  ghost ;  and  found  the 
apartment  of  the  Countess. 

Harry  tapped  softly,  but  there  was  no  reply.  Sud- 
denly he  heard  a  smothered  cry:  "Help!  Help!" 

Thrusting  his  shoulder  against  the  door,  he  burst  it 
open  and  rushed  into  the  room.  The  Countess  lay 
upon  the  floor.  Von  Derbitz  knelt  beside  her,  his 
hands  clutching  her  throat.  Wrestling  desperately, 
Harry  tore  him  away.  Across  the  floor  they  rolled 
to  the  door,  where  Harry  thrust  his  opponent  into  the 
corridor  and  turned  the  key. 

Leading  the  Countess  to  the  window,  Harry  sprang 
out  upon  the  sill.  "Come  quick,"  he  said,  "they  will 
be  after  us  in  a  minute." 

Placing  her  feet  on  the  gnarled  branches,  with  his  arm 
encircling  her,  he  clambered  down  the  vine  to  the  upper 
cavern.    Two  guards  rushed  suddenly  from  the  shadows 


382  Old  Belgium 

with  bared  bayonets.  Drawing  his  automatic,  Harry- 
fired;  the  foremost  fell  dead,  the  other  slunk  back 
cursing.  On  to  the  wine-cellar  they  dashed,  but  here 
Antoinette's  nerve  failed  her.  One  downward  look  at 
the  swaying  rope-ladder  and  her  brain  swam  giddily. 
"  I  can  never  make  it, "  she  cried. 

Harry  clasped  her  close.  "There  is  no  risk.  I  love 
you  utterly.    Will  you  trust  to  me?  " 

"  Now,  and  always, "  she  answered. 

He  tied  her  wrists  together  with  a  handkerchief,  and, 
placing  her  arms  around  his  neck,  descended.  When 
they  reached  the  last  rung,  he  stooped,  grasped  it,  and, 
striking  out  with  his  feet,  dropped  to  my  shoulders. 
Then  he  leaped  into  the  boat,  nearly  capsizing  it. 

As  we  sprang  to  the  oars  a  shout  rang  from  the 
balcony.  It  was  von  Derbitz,  who  leaped,  striking  the 
water  with  a  splash  which  drenched  us  with  spray,  and 
came  to  the  surface  only  a  few  feet  behind  us. 

Harry  raised  an  oar  and  as  von  Derbitz  grasped  the 
stern  thrust  him  under.  We  raced  on  but  he  rose  and 
swam  frenziedly  after  us. 

I  jumped  ashore  and  pulled  in  the  boat.  Running  to 
the  monoplane,  Antoinette  and  Harry  sprang  in.  He 
started  the  engine  and,  shoving  with  all  my  might,  I  sent 
them  trundling  along  the  ground. 

Von  Derbitz  ran  up  as  they  mounted.  He  clutched 
at  the  aeroplane,  but  the  propeller  struck  him  and  he 
fell  back  upon  me. 


Blood  Kindred  383 

We  grappled.  I  thought  myself  his  match,  but  he  was 
drunk  with  rage  and  fought,  not  like  a  man  but  a  fiend. 
I  doubled  his  arm  back  and  he  cried  out  with  pain. 
Relaxing  my  grip,  his  dagger  bit  my  side  and  all  was 
darkness. 

11 

HOUGOMONT 

Great  peace  is  over  Hougomont, 

And  over  La  Haie  Sainte  is  peace, 
The  level  lands  are  ploughed  and  rich 

With  promise  of  increase; 
The  sleepy  cattle  graze  along 

Beneath  the  scarred  historic  walls, 
And  here  where  nations  spent  their  blood 

The  flush  of  sunset  falls. 

No  pride  nor  pity  touches  me, 

Nor  Hatred's  fire  and  ancient  stings, 
Only  a  sense  of  strifes  outworn, 

And  strange  ironic  things; 
And  stirrings  of  some  broken  strain 

Of  sounding  hoofs  and  answering  guns, 
And  faith  that  Europe  now  as  then 

Can  breed  heroic  sons. 

John  Drinkwater. 

Dawn  silvered  the  historic  battlefield,  as  they  flew 
over  Waterloo,  displaying  long  ribbons  of  white  roads, 
winding  between  wide  fields,  golden  with  grain,  as  yet 
unharvested.  Children  were  driving  to  pasture  con- 
tented cattle.     From  the  church  spires  of  the  waking 


384  Old  Belgium 

hamlets  the  angelus  chimed  musically.  They  were 
flying  low,  and  Harry  discerned  a  cluster  of  irregular 
buildings.  "Here  is  a  farm,"  he  said,  "shall  we  descend 
for  rest  and  dejeuner  ?  " 

The  Countess  assented.  "Why  this  is  my  own 
memoir  I"  she  exclaimed,  "dear  old  Hougomont." 

Harry  tilted  his  planes  and  they  glided  to  a  meadow. 
As  they  walked  along  the  road  a  dairy- woman,  driving 
a  dog-cart,  approached  them,  singing,  as  she  jogged,  a 
merry  tune  to  the  rattling  of  her  great  brass  milk-cans. 

The  panting  dogs  halted  and  their  driver  stared  in 
astonished  delight.  "Cest  ma  petite  Toinette!"  she 
cried,  springing  from  her  cart  and  kissing  the  hands 
of  the  Countess. 

"Yes,  Mere  Bavarde,  it  is  your  very  tired  Toinette. 
Have  you  some  milk  for  her  in  the  china  porringer  with 
the  blue  tulips?" 

"Mon  Dieu,  oui!"  she  cried.  "How  pale  you  are! 
Come  into  the  manoir  and  I  will  make  you  cafe  au  lait. 
Tenez,  that  is  a  strange  kind  of  bird  on  which  you  came. 

"Bien  oui,  I  have  seen  them.  It  is  an  age  of  wonders. 
See,  I  have  here  a  telegram  from  niece  Lizi,  she  who 
makes  them  at  Waldsteen.  She  says  the  Bodies  are 
upon  us,  and  she  is  coming  to  me.  But  she  is  crazy, 
that  girl."  As  she  gossiped,  Mere  Bavarde  conducted 
us  to  her  kitchen  and  bustled  about  preparing  break- 
fast, which  she  served  beneath  a  trellised  arbour  in  the 
garden. 


Blood  Kindred  385 

"I  trust  you  are  not  sacrificing  the  carrier-pigeons 
for  us,"  Antoinette  said  as  the  good  woman  brought  a 
platter  of  spitted  birds. 

"Mais  non,  the  carriers  are  kept  apart;  we  have  many, 
many.  Shall  Mademoiselle  go  to  her  chateau  near 
Ypres?  We  have  pigeons  from  its  dove-cote  also. 
Mademoiselle  remembers  son  Antoine,  who  is  her 
fermier  l&-bas?  The  gars  will  be  glad  to  fly  a  pigeon  to 
Lizi  when  she  comes  to  me." 

Harry  was  struck  by  a  sudden  thought.  "Keep  your 
pigeons,  Madame,"  he  said,  "they  may  be  more  useful 
than  you  think." 

He  examined  the  dove-cote,  and  looked  with  keen 
interest  about  the  courtyard.  "I  have  always  longed  to 
see  Hougomont, "  he  remarked,  "for  my  grandfather 
fought  under  Wellington  and  my  grandmother, 
Huguette  de  Goumont,  was  born  in  this  very  manoir." 

Antoinette  laughed  in  delighted  surprise.  "Why,  she 
was  the  cousin  of  my  grandfather!  We  are  related, 
without  doubt." 

"I'd  rather  think  we  were  friends,"  he  replied. 

"The  best  of  friends.  Though  kin,  we  need  be  no  less 
kind." 

They  were  in  the  orchard  where  their  ancestors,  a  cen- 
tury agone,  had  ministered  to  one  another  in  sore  distress. 
The  thrill  in  her  voice  stirred  Harry  to  the  depths. 
Wheeling  about  he  caught  her  hand.  "Allies,  friends, 
kindred — dearest,  may  we  not  be  something  more?" 

OS 


386  Old  Belgium 

HI 

THE  BOMBARDMENT  OF  ANTWERP 

Peace  and  darkness  brooded  over  the  city.  Through 
broken  shards  of  cloud  a  wan  moon  blinked  down  upon 
sleeping  houses  and  deserted  streets.  Scarcely  a  ripple 
stirred  the  placid  river  which  seemed  almost  to  have 
ceased  to  flow  in  the  sombre  silence  of  its  empty  quais. 

Straight  and  sharp,  like  a  lofty  pine-tree,  looms  the 
fretted  obelisk  of  the  great  cathedral  spire,  raising 
ever  to  an  unseeing  heaven  its  vain  beseeching  hand. 
All  lights  have  been  extinguished.  The  city  appears 
cold,  uninhabited,  and  dead.  Only  the  minster  chimes, 
as  they  toll  the  lagging  hour,  give  audible  trace  of 
human  life. 

Suddenly  a  shadow  passes  across  the  face  of  the  moon ! 
It  darkens — widens — greatens — floating  onward  like  a 
sleek,  aerial  whale.  Noiseless  and  ghostly  it  glides  in 
furtive  flight.  Nearer  and  nearer  it  looms,  sweeping  in 
a  spacious  circle  over  the  house-tops  of  the  slumbering 
city. 

Suddenly  from  its  gauzy  envelope  flutters  a  filmy 
black  thread!  Hissing  like  a  rocket,  downward  writhes 
a  slender  puff  of  smoke. 

Then,  with  a  flash,  whose  lurid  glare  illumines  the 
surrounding  country,  a  deafening  concussion  bursts  the 
ear-drums  of  the  night!     Like  a  mighty  earthquake 


Mere  Bavarde  and  her  "  patient,  panting  doggies  " 


From  a  copyright  photograph  by  Underwood  &  Ui 


1,  X.  V. 


6 

o 
to 

3 

o 

n 


O        O 


Blood  Kindred  387 

muttering  its  wrath  in  thunderous  mumblings  rever- 
berating on  and  on  in  reiterant  muffled  roar. 

Searchlights  from  every  quarter  suddenly  slash  the 
murk !  Multitudinous  and  glaring,  they  dart  like  giant 
glow-worms  through  the  dusky  void.  Machine-guns 
belch  and  sputter  at  the  hovering  bird  of  prey !  Rifles 
crack  and  the  bullets  zip  like  flies  around  a  carcass — 
but  the  aerial  Dreadnought  is  out  of  range,  and  swift  and 
scatheless  sails  majestically  away. 

Antoinette  grasped  Harry's  arm  and  gazed  at  the 
air-ship  in  tense  excitement,  but  unafraid.  "Harry!" 
she  cried  as  the  bomb  exploded  in  the  square,  "that 
was  aimed  at  the  cathedral ! " 

"And  missed!"  he  exulted.  "Thank  God,  it  missed 
you,  darling." 

"It  has  done  no  harm,"  she  laughed.  "But,  Harry, 
will  they  come  again?  " 

"Not  tonight;  but  this  is  only  the  beginning.  You 
must  leave  Antwerp." 

They  were  sitting  upon  her  balcony,  speaking  little, 
so  absorbed  were  they  in  their  happiness.  "Yes,  I  will 
go, "  she  replied  reluctantly.  "The  Queen  has  accepted 
my  chateau  of  Bonneville.  I  will  convert  it  at  once 
into  a  military  hospital.  But  I  hate  to  run  away  before 
the  guns.  I  want  to  stay  and  fight  shoulder  to  shoulder 
with  you." 

He  drew  her  close.  ' '  What  a  sanguinary  creature  you 


388  Old  Belgium 

are!  Do  you  realize  that  you  are  giving  me  heart  to 
fight?  I  never  thought  that  I  should  turn  aside  from 
my  life-work  of  construction.  I  have  built  some  pretty 
towers  in  steel  that  would  match  that  spire  in  height. 
But  the  wonder  of  these  old  cathedral  towers  of  Rheims 
and  Antwerp  has  gripped  me,  and  instead  of  building 
skyscrapers  I  am  going  to  devote  myself  to  the  defence 
of  these  masterpieces.  Let  me  tell  you  what  I  am 
planning. 

"I  have  secret  information  that  the  Germans  are 
constructing  a  giant  aerial  battleship,  which  will  surpass 
the  super  Zeppelins.  We  must  be  prepared  to  meet 
them  and  hold  the  supremacy  of  the  air.  I  believe  that 
the  best  features  of  the  Parseval  Fleurus  and  Astra 
dirigibles  can  be  combined  with  the  Sikorsky  and 
Caproni  aeroplanes  and  result  in  a  battle-plane  of 
tremendous  power.  It  would  have  a  breadth  of  wing  of 
over  a  hundred  feet.  I  would  install  three  150  horse- 
power Mercedes  engines,  and  four  rapid-fire  machine- 
guns,  to  enable  it  to  attack  on  every  quarter  without 
turning." 

"Harry!"  Antoinette  exclaimed,  "why  don't  you 
build  such  an  air-ship  for  the  Belgian  Government?" 

"I  hope  to  do  so;  but  the  first  thing  is  to  find  a 
manufacturing  plant  and  complete  a  model." 

"Yes,"  she  exclaimed,  "at  Bleyden  are  the  very 
builders  for  you.  I  will  write  the  senior  member  of  the 
firm  to  place  his  works  at  your  service,  and  that  I  will 


Blood  Kindred  389 

back  your  invention  with  whatever  capital  is  required." 
"I  cannot  permit  you  to  do  this, "  he  exclaimed.     "  It 
is  too  much,  dearest." 

"Nothing  is  too  much  for  Belgium,"  she  murmured, 
lowering  her  eyes  as  Harry  sealed  the  contract,  then  de- 
scending the  stairway  waved  gaily  to  her  from  the  street. 
Antoinette  sat  wondering  vaguely  at  her  own  depres- 
sion. "  '  Only  for  a  little  while,'  he  said,"  she  repeated  to 
her  foreboding  heart,  and  strove  in  vain  to  sleep. 

A  day  later  saw  the  beginning  of  the  bombardment  of 
Antwerp. 

Within  the  turret,  stripped  to  the  waist,  the  bronze- 
backed  gunners  with  blood-shot  eyes  blind  with  smoke 
leap  to  the  monster  gun. 

The  captain,  maimed  and  reeling,  his  head  bound 
with  bandages,  still  stands  by  to  fire  a  final  charge. 
Shrapnel  bursts  upon  the  glacis  tearing  great  gashes  in 
the  silken  sward.  Shells  explode  and  hurl  steel  splinters 
through  the  embrasures  of  the  armoured  dome.  Pant- 
ing and  crazed  by  the  stifling  heat  in  the  bowels  of  this 
infernal  vault,  waits  the  blackened  and  bloody  crew. 

Suddenly  a  titanic  thunder  rends  the  air;  a  lightning 
flash  and  belch  of  choking  fumes. 

The  cloud  slowly  clears  disclosing,  in  place  of  the 
rounded  cupola,  a  shapeless  heap  of  shattered  concrete 
and  splintered  steel.  Where  once  had  stood  a  fort,  now 
lies  a  mass  of  mangled  limbs  and  shredded  bones. 


390  Old  Belgium 

IV 
AT  THE  CHATEAU-HOSPITAL 

When  the  storm  burst  upon  Antwerp,  Antoinette 
slipped  away  to  her  chateau  of  Bonneville. 

Where  so  long  ago  the  Nervii  made  their  stand  against 
Caesar,  fighting  knee-deep  in  morasses,  the  heroic  Bel- 
gians opened  dykes  and  farmsteads  to  the  sea,  rather  than 
to  that  relentless  Teuton  tide  which  swept  upon  them. 

Gaunt  and  grey,  with  tall  turrets  silhouetted  against 
the  clear  sky,  like  halberds  of  a  troop  of  lancers,  the 
chateau  lifts  hoary  towers  above  terraced  parterres. 
For  seven  centuries  have  the  self-same  battlements 
frowned  down  upon  as  many  wars  and  sheltered  succes- 
sive generations  of  the  de  Bonnevilles.  Their  inter- 
minable salons  made  admirable  wards  for  the  Auxiliary 
Hospital,  into  which  Antoinette  converted  her  luxurious 
home. 

Here  it  was  my  privilege  to  co-operate  with  her, 
receiving,  from  the  dressing  station  at  Ypres,  hundreds 
of  men  too  desperately  wounded  for  transportation  to 
the  main  hospitals  at  Amiens  and  Paris.  Never  shall 
I  forget  the  pity  in 

The  faces  of  the  Sisters  as  they  bore  the  wounded  in, 
When  each  nerve  cried  on  God  that  made  the  misused  clay, 
Till  the  pain  was  merciful  and  stunned  them  into  silence, — ■ 
These  abode  their  agonies  and  wiped  the  sweat  away.1 

1  Rudyard  Kipling. 


Blood  Kindred  391 

At  my  present  writing  the  beautiful  old  chateau  is 
still  a  place  of  stillness  and  peace.  In  each  of  its  nine- 
teen great  chambers  is  installed  a  bed,  and  in  each,  pale 
and  lifeless,  lies  a  wounded  soldier.  In  the  library,  amid 
rare  bibelots  garnered  from  the  uttermost  parts  of  the 
world,  Spanish  armour,  Chinese  porcelains,  brazen 
Buddhas,  Mechlin  lace,  ivory  carvings,  Delft  and 
Arras,  dim  Madonnas  bend  sorrowful  eyes  down  upon  a 
young  French  lieutenant  who  lies  sightless  amid  these 
curios  in  the  embrace  of  La  belle  Dame  sans  merci. 

Death  lurks  also  in  the  drawing-room  where  Memling, 
Teniers,  Rubens,  and  Van  Dyck,  in  massive  gildings, 
set  the  walls  aglow  with  the  opulent,  ancient  Flemish 
life.  Here  lies  an  English  colonel,  veteran  of  the 
Crimean  War,  white  as  a  corpse,  shot  through  the 
lungs,  bleeding  to  death. 

In  the  music  room,  whose  clustered-columned  vaulted 
loggias  have  echoed  so  often  to  clavichord  and  castanet, 
a  Belgian  general  hums  softly  an  air  he  cannot  hear. 

He  was  deafened  by  the  bursting  of  a  shell  at 


THE   BATTLE   OF   THE    RIVERS 

We  saw  nothing  of  Harry  until  the  spring  brought  a 
lull  in  the  fighting,  for  after  perfecting  the  designs  of  his 
great  battle-plane,  he  had  joined  the  Royal  British 
Flying  Corps  and  had  been  constantly  at  the  front. 


392  Old  Belgium 

Was  there  a  particularly  hazardous  reconnaissance, 
he  was  sure  to  be  detailed  for  the  duty.  We  had  not 
infrequently  heard  of  his  dashing  raids  over  the  enemy's 
country,  though  it  was  difficult  to  make  him  speak  of 
them.  But  the  evening  before  he  left  us,  as  we  were 
sitting  in  Antoinette's  boudoir  before  the  great  fireplace, 
where  glowing  pine-cones  dispelled  the  chill  of  the 
April  night,  he  responded  more  frankly  to  our  urgent 
clamours  for  a  tale  of  personal  adventure. 

"I  wonder,"  he  mused  after  a  silence  devoted  to 
carefully  lighting  a  cigarette,  "if  you  happen  to  know 
why  the  battle  of  the  Marne  did  not  eventuate  just  as 
the  Germans  anticipated." 

"I  am  sure  you  had  a  finger  in  the  pie,"  Antoinette 
asserted  proudly,  "for  we  know  that  General  French 
sent  you  to  assist  JorTre  at  that  time." 

Harry  laughed.  "Any  other  aviator  would  have 
turned  the  trick  as  well, "  he  said;  "  I  happened  to  have 
the  chance,  that's  all.  The  details  which  included  the 
activities  of  yours  truly  are  of  no  importance  to  the 
world  but  more  nearly  approach  an  adventure  than 
any  of  my  other  experiences. 

"In  the  sultry  heat  of  September  we  were  fighting  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  Nancy. 

"The  attacks  of  the  Germans  seemed  to  have  dwin- 
dled into  feints  and  might  be  simply  attempts  to 
divert  our  attention  from  more  serious  operations 
in   another   quarter.    In    this    state    of    uncertainty 


Blood  Kindred  393 

I  was  detailed  to  ascertain  what  was  going  on  at  the 
enemy's  centre. 

"The  balls  of  the  German  snipers  whistled  harm- 
lessly about  me  as  my  biplane  rose  out  of  the  after- 
noon haze  and  came  round  in  a  long  curve  settling  to 
its  north-westward  flight. 

"My  scout  was  directed  toward  Vitry  le  Francois,  just 
within  the  German  trenches.  As  I  flew  high  above  the 
town  I  saw  unrolled  beneath  me,  a  large  section  of  the 
enemy's  formation,  corps  after  corps,  deployed  in  an 
immense  V,  the  point  concentrating  on  Vitry. 

"This  appeared  to  be  our  weak  spot,  for  the  British, 
under  Kitchener  and  French,  were  far  to  the  west, 
near  Amiens  and  St.  Quentin,  pressing  against  the  right 
flank  of  Von  Kluck.  General  Joffre,  as  I  have  explained, 
held  the  east  wing,  while  at  the  centre,  the  army  of 
Paris  remained  panic-stricken  within  its  enceinte. 

"'The  Germans  will  drive  south  from  Vitry,'"  I 
said  to  myself,  '  for  here  our  lines  are  unsupported  by 
reserves.' 

"I  was  about  to  return,  when,  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Chalons,  I  noticed  a  monoplane;  and,  as  it  neared 
me,  recognized  the  black  crosses  of  a  Taube.  I  spiralled 
rapidly  higher.  The  Taube  also  manoeuvred  for  posi- 
tion. My  biplane  was  swifter.  From  a  height  of  4000 
feet,  I  swooped  like  a  falcon  upon  a  dove,  and  with  my 
rapid-fire  gun  wounded  the  aviator. 

"  He  glided  swiftly  to  the  ground,  where  some  labourers 


394  Old  Belgium 

were  harvesting  hay.  I  watched  him  leave  his  machine, 
run  a  few  yards,  and  then  fall. 

"A  peasant-crone,  brandishing  a  pitchfork,  ran  toward 
me.  'There  he  is,  behind  the  hayrick,'  she  shrilled; 
'shall  I  prod  him,  M'sieu?' 

"Declining  the  assistance  of  the  gentle  creature,  I 
rushed  forward  and  recognized,  in  the  unconscious 
aviator,  our  old  friend  von  Derbitz. 

"We  searched  him  and  discovered,  within  the  lining 
of  his  coat,  a  code  message.  Translating  the  involved 
cipher,  I  read  as  follows : 

(i) 
'"Imperial  Headquarters. 

'"To  General  von  Buelow: 

" '  I  am  engaging  Joffre  in  the  environs  of  Nancy. 

"Von  Kluck  has  forced  Kitchener  and  French  on 
Amiens.  Drive  on  Paris  through  the  centre  of  the 
Allies'  line.    Do  not 

(2) 

wait  for  my  arrival  before  attacking  the  enemy. 
"'Signed 

" '  Wilhelm.' 

"  Here  was  what  I  wanted,  the  precise  location  where 
the  German  attack  would  be  delivered.  I  must  fly  to 
General  Joffre  with  my  news.  But  in  the  meantime, 
von  Buelow,  even  without  this  order,  might  be  counted 
upon  to  advance;  and  von  Kluck,  now  on  the  march, 


Blood  Kindred  395 

would    surely  wedge    his    army  between    Paris  and 
General  Joffre,  cutting  our  line  in  two. 

"  It  was  precisely  the  stroke  Napoleon  hoped  to  ac- 
complish at  Waterloo,  when  he  attempted  to  throw 
Grouchy's  troops  between  Wellington  and  his  German 
allies. 

"  If  there  were  only  some  means  of  delaying  the  attack 
until  our  forces  could  be  concentrated ! 

"  Suddenly  I  saw  a  way.      The  Kaiser's  orders  had 
been  written  on  two  separate  pages.     If  the  last  page 
alone  were  delivered,  it  would  read:     "'Wait  for  my 
arrival  before  attacking,'  and  would  have  the  effect  I 
desired. 

"  Quickly  I  exchanged  my  uniform  for  that  of  the  un- 
conscious German,  but  paused,  as  I  reflected  that  my  bi- 
plane bore  on  its  wings  the  tricolour  circles  of  the  Allies. 

"I  examined  the  Taube  and  found  it  uninjured. 
Heaping  hay  upon  my  uniform  and  biplane,  I  started 
in  the  direction  of  Chalons. 

"It  was  dark  when  I  grounded  outside  the  city.  I 
hurried  to  headquarters  with  my  dispatch.  Fortunately, 
the  General  was  not  in  and  I  was  spared  an  embarrass- 
ing interrogatory.  Appetite  led  me  to  a  cafe,  where, 
round  the  groaning  board,  a  group  of  drunken  Uhlans 
were  celebrating  the  recent  arrival  of  von  Kluck's  ad- 
vance corps.  Seating  myself  in  a  secluded  corner,  I 
absorbed  a  much- needed  meal,  and  with  it  informa- 
tion from  the  hilarious  Teutons. 


396  Old  Belgium 

"'We  have  scared  the  Parisian  rabbits  into  their 
burrow,'  they  boasted,  'not  one  will  stick  his  ears 
outside  the  fortifications.' 

'"How  about  the  British?'  someone  asked. 

'"Kitchener  has  followed  us  to  Soissons,  but  he'll 
not  attack.   We  gave  him  his  bellyful  at  Mons.' 

"Rejoiced  to  learn  that  our  forces  were  so  near,  I 
determined  to  fly  to  them  with  my  news. 

"The  night  was  cool  and  clear.  A  brief  flight  brought 
me  to  the  hay-field.  Here  I  abandoned  the  Taube  for 
my  powerful  biplane.  Von  Derbitz  had  disappeared, 
heaven  knows  how,  without  discovering  it. 

"Gaining  British  headquarters,  I  sought  Earl  Kitch- 
ener and  delivered  my  message.  He  at  once  assem- 
bled the  entire  British  expeditionary  force  and  struck 
southward  to  join  Joffre,  at  the  same  time  sending  word 
to  the  Paris  garrison  urging  them  to  effect  a  junction 
with  him. 

"Back  to  General  Joffre  I  flew  with  tidings  that  the 
combined  armies  were  marching  to  meet  the  German 
advance. 

"I  shall  never  forget  his  laugh,  a  braying,  triumph- 
ant explosion,  as  I  told  him  the  welcome  news.  In  a 
minute  he  had  dispatched  orders  to  his  staff,  com- 
manding an  immediate  movement  of  the  army  to  the 
north-west. 

"On  September  6th,  between  Montmirail  and  Vitry 
le  Francois,  the  Allies  concentrated  along  a  front  of 


Blood  Kindred  397 

fifty  miles.  Then  began  the  terrific  'Battle  of  the 
Marne,'  which  lasted  an  entire  week.  Like  the  con- 
verging blades  of  an  immense  pair  of  shears,  from  Paris 
to  the  eastern  fortresses,  stretched  the  V-shaped  line. 
Between  the  blades,  unwitting  that  they  were  riveted 
at  the  centre,  marched  von  Kluck.  Relentlessly,  though 
slowly,  the  living  blades  closed  upon  him.  He  started 
north  with  frantic  haste,  and,  fighting  desperately, 
managed  to  secure  his  retreat. 

"Four  days  later  von  Buelow,  beaten  by  Joffre,  re- 
treated with  the  entire  German  army,  driven  back 
through  seven  days'  fighting  from  the  Marne  to  the 
Aisne. 

"The  tradition  of  Teuton  invulnerability  was  de- 
molished and  our  armies  exulted  with  the  intoxication 
of  Victory." 


VI 


CONQUERORS   OF  THE  AIR 

We  mount  like  soaring  eagles 

The  empyrean  morn. 
We  veer  and  swoop  like  sea-gulls 

And  hold  the  winds  in  scorn. 

Over  mankind's  dominions 
Our  flight  no  hand  may  stay, 

We  speed  on  gyring  pinions 
Like  vultures  to  our  prey. 


398  Old  Belgium 

On  fleets  and  armies,  tireless 
We  scout  with  watchful  eyes 

And  flash  our  missives  wireless 
From  bastions  of  the  sky. 


Darting  and  never  resting 
Through  shrapnel  to  and  fro, 

Undaunted,  ever  questing 
The  secrets  of  the  foe. 

What  though  the  engine  quiver 
And  halt  with  bated  breath, 

While  in  the  swirling  river 
We  plunge  to  certain  death ! 

We  know  the  joy  supernal, 
The  thunder-lust  of  war ; 

We  climb  the  clouds  eternal 
And  drop — like  a  falling-star! 


Harry's  giant  battle-plane  was  now  completed.  His 
orders  were  elastic,  both  duration  and  direction  of 
flight  being  left  to  his  personal  initiative. 

As  he  was  preparing  to  mount,  Antoinette  gave  him 
a  letter  which  had  just  been  brought  by  one  of  the 
Hougomont  pigeons. 

Lizi,  the  Waldsteen  operator,  had  obtained  a  place  at 
the  Brussels  telegraph  bureau.  This  letter  was  the  du- 
plicate of  a  message  which  had  passed  through  her 
hands,  it  read : 


Blood  Kindred  399 

"On  board  flagship  Cuxhaven. 
"To  Baron  von  Derbitz, 

"Leave  Brussels  on  Wednesday.  Cross  England  in 
Zeppelin  to  latitude  520,  longitude  120  and  deliver  ac- 
companying message: 

"Commander  Untersee, 
"Western  Division  Submarine  Flotilla. 

"  Base,  Cruiser  Siegfried. 

"  Send  six  submarines  to  St.  George's  Channel,  off 

Kinsale  to  intercept  and  torpedo  Cunard  liner  Sulitania, 

due  to  arrive,  with  contraband  of  war  for  the  Allies,  on 

May  7th. 

"Signed  — —  Kriegshof, 

"Acting  Commander  in  Chief,  German  Fleet." 

Harry  was  thunder-struck  by  the  cold-bloodedness  of 
this  order. 

There  was  no  time  to  consult  General  French,  for 
von  Derbitz  might  already  be  on  his  fiendish  errand. 
Without  an  instant's  delay  Harry  and  his  associates 
mounted  the  monster  battle-plane  and  set  forth  upon 
their  scout. 

An  English  officer,  who  was  brought  in  wounded 
from  the  trenches,  gave  us  our  next  news. 

"There  had  been  no  attack  that  morning,"  he  said, 
"and  the  men  were  smoking  idly,  when,  dim  and 
ominous,  hovering  over  the  line  of  low  hills  like  a  giant 
bumble-bee,  a  great  Zeppelin  lumbered  lazily  in  the 


400  Old  Belgium 

breathless  air  of  noon.  First  a  mere  yellow  fleck  on  the 
sapphire  sky,  then  gradually  expanding  till  its  colossal 
bulk  covered  us  with  its  sinister  shadow,  as  we  lay 
crouching  in  the  trenches.  So  clear  and  silent  was  the 
air  that  we  could  see  the  silvered  helmet  of  the  com- 
manding officer  cut  like  a  jewel  against  the  silken  fabric 
of  its  long  cigar-shaped  gas-envelope,  and  could  hear  the 
cat-like  purr  of  her  whirling  propellers,  as  she  climbed 
clumsily  over  us.  One  sharp,  simultaneous  volley  from 
our  magazine  rifles,  and  she  was  off,  out  of  range, '  scot 
free, '  except  for  a  tattered  streamer  of  yellow  silk,  a 
feather  from  the  Prussian  Eagle,  trailing  from  her  stern. 

"Suddenly  the  air  is  filled  with  a  whir  of  wings,  like 
the  rising  of  a  covey  of  partridges,  as  an  English  battle- 
plane, flashing  from  behind  a  neighbouring  copse, 
soars  upward  and  gives  chase!  A  shower  of  shrapnel 
from  the  German  batteries  greets  the  departure  of  the 
British  air-ship  and  falls  roaring  to  earth! 

"Calmly  the  pilot  holds  the  wheel,  impervious  to  any 
sense  of  danger.  Little  by  little  he  gains  on  his  giant 
adversary,  mounting  steadily  higher  with  the  plan  of 
attacking  from  above.  When  he  had  reached  an  altitude 
of  2000  metres,  and  approached  within  500  metres  of 
the  fleeing  dirigible,  the  latter  opened  fire  on  its  pursuer 
with  a  volley  of  machine-guns. 

"The  battle-plane  made  a  sudden  dive,  escaping 
without  injury,  then,  circling  gradually  higher,  hovered 
for  an  instant  above  its  opponent. 


Blood  Kindred  401 

"A  flash  of  white,  drops  like  a  stone  from  the  body  of 
the  battle-plane,  and  the  dreaded  Zeppelin  bursts 
instantly  into  yellow  flame  and  crashes  clumsily  to 
earth!  At  the  same  time,  the  battle-plane  swerves 
swiftly  from  the  flaming  gases  and  glides  down  into 
the   meadow." 

VII 

FUMES  OF  HELL 

Then  on  them  poured  a  raine  of  stinkynge  fire, 

Saffron  as  reek  from  Etna's  cratere  caste, 

And  belch  of  blindyng  smoke  and  furye  dire 

Kindled  to  burstyng  flame  the  welkyn  vaste! 

Anon  the  Francs  presse  up  with  dauntless  wil, 

But,  spyte  of  al  assaults,  the  Huns  againe 

Of  vapours  dire  and  fumes  of  flaming  oile 

Pour  on  ther  foemenne  such  a  ceaseles  raine 

That,  doomward,  down  they  totter  starke  and  stil! 

For  every  Hun  the  bolde  crusaders  kil 

An  hundred  Paynims  swarmyng  from  the  soil 

Seem  suddenly  to  spring  to  life,  until 

Our  courage,  overtried,  at  last  doth  faile, 

Who  can  againste  such  whelming  oddes  prevail? 

Unknown  Chronicler. 

"What  is  it,  a  conflagration?"  asked  Antoinette  as 
she  watched  the  lurid  bank  of  yellow  smoke  settling 
above  the  trenches  beyond  the  meadow. 

Scanning  the  field  eagerly  with  my  glass,  where  the 
French  held  the  line,  I  saw  a  multitude  of  figures 
fleeing  dazedly  before  a  murky  cloud. 

36 


402  Old  Belgium 

"The  French  have  broken,"  someone  shouted,  and 
a  moment  later  the  road  was  crowded  with  a  mob  of 
panic-stricken  fugitives,  artillerymen,  Zouaves,  Turcos, 
and  Infantry.  Delirious  they  staggered  in,  with  heaving 
chests  and  livid,  contorted  faces,  from  suffocation  with 
the  fumes  of  that  poison  gas. 

Through  a  four-mile  breach  the  Germans  were  pouring 
in  thousands,  into  which  gap  the  "Princess  Pats,"  the 
crack  Canadian  regiment,  immediately  rushed.  Over- 
whelmed by  superior  numbers,  stifled  by  the  asphyxiat- 
ing fumes,  "The  men  who  came  from  the  setting 
sun"  fought  with  the  fury  of  fiends  and  converted  a 
terrible  disaster  into  a  victory. 

The  Bodies  swarmed  upon  them  in  hordes — only  to 
be  repulsed  with  terrific  loss — but  ever  came  new 
reserves,  fresh,  invincible,  inexhaustible. 

Running  out  of  the  teeming  ward,  I  sprang  into  the 
motor-ambulance  and  speeded  to  the  battlefield. 

Orderlies  were  scurrying  hither  and  thither  laying 
upon  stretchers  bodies  of  unconscious  victims. 

Through  the  saffron  fumes  staggered  a  soldier  in  the 
last  stage  of  exhaustion.  "For  God's  sake,  give  this 
to  General  French,"  he  gasped,  struggling  to  tear  a 
message  from  his  coat. 

"Trust  it  to  me,  Harry,"  I  replied,  as  we  lifted  him 
into  the  ambulance. 

"Rush  to  the  hospital,"  I  shouted  to  the  chauffeur; 


Antwerp  Spire 


"  It  rises  above  the  huddled  houses,  a  slender  obelisk  of  sculptured  lace 


"  Vast  intricacy  and  picturesqueness  of  perspective  " 


Antwerp  Cathedral — Interior 


Blood  Kindred  403 

and,  while  my  assistant  kneaded  his  chest  I  seized  Harry's 
arms  and  pumped  them  up  and  down  rhythmically. 

He  was  still  unconscious  as  we  bore  him  in.  His 
pulse  scarcely  perceptible,  spontaneous  breathing  had 
ceased,  and  red  blotches  spotted  the  bluish  pallor  of  his 
face.  Antoinette  ran  to  his  side.  "  Dearest,"  she  called 
again  and  again, — but  Harry  gave  no  response. 

"Take  him  to  the  operating-room,"  I  ordered,  and 
send  for  Dr.  Kyle. 

The  famous  specialist  joined  us  a  moment  later, 
businesslike,  cool,  and  confident.  ' '  Transfusion  of  blood 
is  the  only  hope  for  this  case,"  he  announced  after  a 
careful  inspection. 

"Find  someone  to  give  his  blood,"  entreated  An- 
toinette, "no  matter  what  the  cost";  then,  turning  to 
Dr.  Kyle,  asked :  "  Is  it  death  for  the  donor?  " 

"No,  my  child,  though  it  is  a  serious  matter;  for  we 
cannot  measure  the  amount  of  blood  which  flows  from 
the  artery  of  the  donor  to  the  vein  of  the  recipient. 
But  it  is  our  patient's  only  chance  for  recovery." 

I  went  through  all  the  wards,  promising  five  thousand 
francs  for  a  volunteer.  Only  two  men  responded,  one 
tuberculous,  the  other  dying  of  blood-poison,  both 
manifestly  unfit. 

Returning  disheartened,  I  offered  myself.  Dr.  Kyle 
proceeded  to  make  a  microscopic  test,  mingling  a  few 
drops  of  my  blood  with  Harry's. 

After  a  time  he  shook  his  head.     "Utterly  incom- 


404  Old  Belgium 

patible — their  blood  will  not  mingle  without  causing 
destruction  of  the  red  cells.  If  we  could  only  find  some 
relative.    Consanguinity  is  what  we  need." 

Antoinette  was  transfigured  with  a  strange  delight, 
as  she  swiftly  bared  the  beauty  of  her  arm. 

"We   are  blood-kindred,"   she  said  triumphantly. 

Dr.  Kyle  bent  his  head.  "Greater  love  hath  no  man 
than  this " 

Flashing  on  Harry  a  smile  of  maternal  tenderness, 
Antoinette  laid  herself  upon  the  table  by  his  side. 

Painting  Harry's  left  arm  with  iodine,  I  opened  a 
vein  and  drew  away  the  poisoned  blood.  Meantime, 
Dr.  Kyle  made  an  incision  in  an  artery  of  Antoinette's 
right  wrist,  and,  by  means  of  a  glass  tube,  connected  it 
with  Harry's  arm. 

For  half  an  hour  her  heart  ceaselessly  throbbed, 
pulsing  pure  blood  into  his  polluted  veins. 

Presently  Harry  stirred,  an  awakening  flush  lighted 
his  face.  He  breathed  deeply  and  gazed  about  with 
eager  questioning  eyes.  Antoinette  went  suddenly 
white.  Dr.  Kyle  instantly  arrested  the  transfusion, 
and,  by  dextrous  stitching,  we  hastily  closed  their 
wounds. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  questioned  Harry  confusedly. 

"It  means, "  I  answered,  "that  your  life  is  saved." 

Antoinette  gasped,  straining  for  breath,  then  relapsed 
into  immobility. 

Harry  winced  as  if  struck  with  a  whip.  "  Lift  me  up ! " 


£  -' 


PQ     5 


PQ 


"  Oriental  minaret,  and  Gothic  tracery 


St.  Sang,  Bruges 

From  a  photograph  by  Neurdein 


Blood  Kindred  405 

he  cried  imperiously.  We  raised  him  to  a  seated  posture. 
Clasping  Antoinette  in  his  quivering  arms,  Harry 
sobbed  like  a  child. 

Not  long  after  I  had  the  happiness  of  acting  as 
groomsman  at  the  wedding  of  our  friends,  where,  in 
the  presence  of  the  King  and  Queen  of  Belgium,  Lord 
Kitchener  decorated  the  bridegroom  with  the  coveted 
Victoria  Cross. 


BELGIAN  BELLS 

In  a  brave  old  Flemish  city, 
Ringed  with  water  all  around, 
Where  the  girls  are  all  so  pretty 
Quaintly  coifed  and  gaily  gowned; 
And  to  market-place  and  cloister 
Windy  wharf  and  bustling  mart 
Shrewish  fish-wives  bring  the  oyster, 
Eel,  and  flounder  in  a  cart, 
Dragged  by  patient,  panting  doggies 
Big  as  wolves  and  tame  as  mares, 
While  with  deep  and  raucous  voices 
These  sea-sirens  shout  their  wares, 
And  the  lanes  are  rife  with  laughter, 
As  the  brazen  kettles  gleam 
From  the  tiles  above  the  rafter 
To  the  stones  beneath  the  stream. 
But  above  the  city's  clamour 
Fast  enfolded  by  its  wings 
Gleams  the  great  cathedral's  glamour 
Through  the  dusk  and  din  of  things. 
And  at  sunset  when  the  quiet 
Slants  its  shadow  on  the  square 
Ring  the  chimes  a  joyous  riot 
Through  the  silent  winter  air. 
From  the  minster  in  the  golden 
Mist  of  melody  and  fire 
Flames  the  buttressed  belfry  olden 
And  its  lace-encrusted  spire. 
406 


"  Flames  the  buttressed  belfry  olden  and  its  lace-encrusted  spire  " 


Antwerp  Cathedral  and  Rubens  Monument 

From  a  photograph  by  \V.  A.  Mansoll  &  Co 


Cathedral  of  Ste.  Gudule,  Brussels 


..<.  .-,,  «.,.:      »F 


Portail  de  la  Vierge,  Notre  Dame  de  Huy 

From  a  drawing  by  Albert  Chanler 


Belgian  Bells  407 

Bell-tower  battered,  bruised,  and  saddened, 

With  what  need  of  joy  and  pain 

Will  our  yearning  hearts  be  gladdened 

By  thy  jubilant  refrain? 

Shall  the  ripple  of  thy  singing 

Rouse  the  welkin  with  its  ringing, 

Clanging  victory  again? 

Then  with  murmur  gently  swelling 

Came  the  answer  ever  welling, 

In  a  calm  triumphant  strain 

Came  an  echo  ever  knelling 

As  from  chimes  within  my  brain — 

"Peace  on  Earth"  all  hate  dispelling 

Carillon  of  Christmas  cheer, 

Ring  to  all  the  news  foretelling — 

1 '  War  shall  cease !     Goodwill  to  all ! " 

Then  outside  my  humble  dwelling 

Comes  a  strident  brazen  call, 

"Wuxtry,  Wuxtry!"  hear  the  yell, 

"Two  more  churches  shot  to  hell!" 


CHAPTER  XII 

NOTABLE  EXAMPLES  OF  BELGIAN  ARCHITECTURE1 
PART  I — MEDLEVAL  PERIOD 

'T'HE  architecture  of  the  Middle  Ages  breathes  the 
*  spirit  of  Memling,  retreat  from  the  din  of  the 
world  to  an  abode  where  passions  are  stilled,  strife 
ceases  in  prayer  and  love,  where  physical  and  moral 
ugliness  are  nonexistent,  and  where  spiritual  thoughts 
bloom,  like  lilies,  in  the  purity  of  naive  innocence. 

It  is  precisely  in  examples  of  this  period  that  Belgium, 
a  country  so  harried  by  alien  invasions  that  it  has  been 
described  as  the  cockpit  of  Europe,  is  richest.  Richer 
far  than  France — possibly  than  all  of  the  countries  of 
Northern  Europe  combined. 

This  was  inevitable,  for  from  the  tenth  to  the  six- 
teenth century,  while  the  other  countries  of  Europe 

•Indebtedness  is  acknowledged  to  the  following  authorities:  Dr. 
Martin  Shaw  Briggs,  Baroque  Architecture;  Eugene  Fromentin,  Les 
Mattres  d' Autrefois;  Dr.  James  Fergusson,  History  of  Architecture;  Lou- 
vain  Number,  Architectural  Review,  London;  G.  A.  T.  Middleton, 
Architectural  Record;  H.  Obreen  and  H.  Van  der  Linden,  Album  His- 
torique  de  la  Belgique,  Brussels;  Professor  Conrado  Ricci,  Baroque 
Architecture;  Max  Rooses,  Curator  of  the  Plantin-Moretus  Museum, 
Antwerp;  "  Times'  "  History  of  the  War,  London. 

408 


a  < 
5  g 


1-1    6 


Examples  of  Belgian  Architecture     409 

were  engaged  in  war,  Belgium  was  enjoying  a  supremacy 
in  commercial  prosperity  due  to  her  tireless  industry; 
and  had  developed  a  more  luxurious  civilization  than 
her  neighbours,  which  found  its  expression  in  the  arts 
of  life.  Its  architecture  was  the  ornate  Gothic  of 
Northern  France — for  a  large  part  of  its  population, 
the  Walloons,  were  largely  French  and,  moreover,  the 
northern  provinces  of  France  were  at  this  time  a  part 
of  Belgium.  Of  the  cathedrals  of  northern  Europe, 
that  of  Antwerp  exceeds  in  size  and  gorgeousness  all 
others;  few  can  rival  those  of  Mechlin,  Mons,  Bruges, 
and  Ghent,  while  there  is  hardly  a  village  which  does 
not  possess  a  church  worthy  of  study. 

A  review  of  the  Gothic  architecture  may  therefore 
well  be  taken  up  as  the  traveller  sees  it,  city  by  city. 
One  cannot  go  wrong  in  search  of  such  shrines  no  matter 
how  we  shape  our  pilgrimage. 

Antwerp.  The  first  impression  which  the  trans- 
Atlantic  tourist  gains  as  he  sails  slowly  up  the  Scheldt 
is  that  of  the  spire  of  Antwerp  Cathedral.  It  rises  like 
a  vision  from  the  square,  whose  huddled  houses  seem 
to  shrink  from  it  as  in  reverent  awe,  a  multitude  of 
pinnacled  buttresses,  soaring  ever  higher  in  a  slender 
obelisk  of  sculptured  lace. 

"Antwerp  Cathedral,"  says  Fergusson,  "is  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  churches  in  Europe,"  being  390  feet 
long  by  170  in  width  inside  the  nave  and  covering 
more  than  70,000  square  feet.     That   of   Cologne  is 


410  Old  Belgium 

66,600.  It  is  divided  into  a  nave  and  six  aisles, 
which  give  a  vast  intricacy  and  picturesqueness  to 
the  perspective. 

"Its  magnificent  portal  with  its  one  finished  tower 
406  feet  in  height  was  commenced  in  1422  but  only- 
finished  in  1 51 8.  It  is  more  in  accordance  with  the 
taste  of  the  sixteenth  century  than  with  the  original 
design,  and  is  still  so  gorgeous  a  specimen  of  art,  and 
towers  so  nobly  over  the  buildings  of  the  city,  that  one 
must  have  very  little  feeling  for  the  poetry  of  art  who 
can  stop  to  criticize  it  too  closely." 

Its  base  is  "perfect  in  proportion  and  good  in  detail; 
the  caprice  begins  only  when  near  the  top,  where  it 
constructively  can  do  no  harm.  It  is  not  perfect,  but 
taking  it  altogether  is  perhaps  the  most  beautiful  thing 
of  its  kind  in  Europe.  It  is  a  great  question  if  the  second 
spire,  which  only  reached  one  third  of  its  intended 
height,  were  it  completed  as  originally  designed,  would 
add  to,  or  detract  from,  the  beauty  of  the  composition. ' ' 

Among  the  most  interesting  of  municipal  buildings 
is  the  Bourse  or  Stock  Exchange  erected  in  1531  by 
Dominigue  de  Waghemakere  and  reconstructed  in  1868 
by  Schadde.  The  latter  architect  retained  its  most 
striking  features,  the  loggias,'  whose  columns  exhibit 
the  capricious  richness  of  the  flamboyant  style. 

Bruges.  Happily  Bruges  yielded  to  the  Germans 
and  escaped  bombardment.  Its  famous  belfry  still 
towers  above  the  quiet  square. 


The  lace-like  spire  of  St.  Gertrude  (Louvain) 

From  a  ('.rawing  by  Albert  Chanlcr 


'  The  colossal  buttressed  tower  of  St.  Rombault " 


MAU,«/ef   C«T»BJR« 


Ai.9f.KT    CMt.Hi.lK. 


Malines  Cathedral 

From  a  drawing  by  Albert  Chanler 


Examples  of  Belgian  Architecture     411 

Its  imposing  octagonal  capital,  once  crowned  by  a 
pyramidal  spire  flanked  by  four  turrets,  since  destroyed 
by  fire,  was  begun  in  1284. 

"The  H6tel-de-Ville,  begun  in  1377,  whose  forty 
niches  were  filled  with  statues  of  the  Counts  of  Flanders, 
with  its  lofty  lancet  windows,  has  more  the  air  of  a 
church  than  a  municipal  building  but  is  nevertheless  a 
distinguished  work  of  art." 

Brussels.  The  Cathedral  of  Sainte  Gudule  was 
begun  in  1220  and  completed  in  the  fifteenth  century. 

The  five  beautiful  stained-glass  windows  in  the 
Chapel  of  the  Sacrament  were  presented  by  the  Em- 
peror Charles  V.,  his  brother  Ferdinand  of  Austria,  and 
his  three  brothers-in-law:  Francis  I.,  of  France,  John 
III.,  of  Portugal,  and  Louis  of  Hungary. 

Liege.  St.  Jacques,  at  Liege  (1 522-1 558),  is  a  very 
interesting  example  of  transitional  architecture,  in 
that  it  still  retains  the  low  octagonal  tower  and  screen 
of  the  old  Romanesque  church — mingled  with  magni- 
ficent flamboyant  features.  The  east  end  is  a  blend 
of  French  and  German  methods.  Its  chapels,  which 
encircle  the  polygonal  choir,  lacking  the  ambulatory, 
do  not  constitute  a  true  chevet  while  they  differentiate 
it  from  the  German  apse.  Altogether  the  structure 
whimsically  and  charmingly  expresses  the  characteris- 
tics of  both  countries,  on  whose  frontier  it  is  situated. 

The  Bishop's  Palace,  one  of  the  largest  and  most 
beautiful  residential  structures  of  mediaeval  Europe, 


412  Old  Belgium 

is  built  about  a  spacious  cloister  surrounded  by  an 
ogival  arcade,  ornamented  with  elegant  restraint. 

Liege  contains  several  churches  of  the  Romanesque 
style  of  which  that  of  Sainte  Croix,  with  its  stately 
octagonal  tower  and  lofty  apse,  is  the  most  noteworthy. 

Among  the  earliest  examples  of  greater  Gothic  work 
"is  the  Cathedral  of  Liege  begun  in  1280,  exhibiting 
the  style  in  great  purity.  It  has  no  western  entrance, 
but  like  St.  Croix,  St.  Jacques,  and  all  the  principal 
churches  of  this  city,  is  entered  by  side  porches." 

Teuton  Vandalism.  It  is  not  our  purpose  to  re- 
trace the  whole  length  of  the  Trail  of  Death  left  by 
the  twentieth-century  iconoclasts — from  Vis6,  Wavre, 
Termonde,  Dinant,  Malines,  Louvain,  Ypres,  to 
Rheims,  where  their  architectural  vandalism  reaches 
its  culmination.  Suffice  it  to  mention  merely  the  more 
notable  structures  which  have  suffered  wanton  de- 
struction or  irreparable  damage  in  the  principal  towns 
and  cities. 

Aerschot.  At  Aerschot,  a  town  of  8000  inhabitants, 
the  Germans  sacked,  pillaged,  and  burned,  held  drunken 
orgies  in  the  house  of  the  village  doctor,  and  stabled 
their  horses  in  its  exquisite  church,  under  a  rich  rood- 
loft  and  amidst  its  fifteenth-century  choir-stalls. 

Vise.  The  quaint  town  of  Vise,  the  seat  of  customs, 
was  burned  with  the  exception  of  a  religious  establish- 
ment which  the  Germans  spared. 


'Dignified,  though  dilapidated." 


The  Market  Place,  Malines 
From  a  drawing  by  Albert  Chanler 


HI 

aiai 


^^"iili 


Museum  Square,  Ypres,  before  the  bombardment 

From  a  copyright  photograph  by  the  Topical  News  Agency 


Examples  of  Belgian  Architecture     413 

Marsage.     Marsage  was  entirely  destroyed. 

Lierre.  At  Lierre,  the  religious  houses  of  the 
Black  Sisters  and  the  Jesuits  were  shattered  to  pieces, 
but  the  beautiful  Gothic  church  of  St.  Gommarius 
appears  to  have  been  preserved. 

Wavre.  Wavre,  to  which  the  Prussians  retreated 
after  the  battle  of  Ligny,  they  totally  demolished. 

Saventhem.  Saventhem,  the  parish  church  of 
which  contains  a  famous  canvas  by  Van  Dyck,  St. 
Martin  Dividing  his  Cloak,  was  put  to  flames. 

Louvain 

Bleeding  and  torn,  ravished  with  sword  and  flame, 

By  that  blasphemous  prince,  who  with  the  name 

Of  God  upon  his  lips  betrayed  the  State 

He  falsely  swore  to  hold  inviolate, 

Made  mad  by  pride  and  reckless  of  the  rod, 

Shaking  his  mailed  fist  at  God. 

But  not  in  vain  her  martyrdom,  Louvain, 

Like  the  brave  maid  of  France  shall  rise  again; 

Above  her  clotted  hair  a  crown  shall  shine, 

From  her  dark  ashes  rise  a  hallowed  shrine 

Where  pilgrims  from  far  lands  shall  heal  their  pain, 

Shrived  by  the  sacred  sorrow  of  Louvain. 

Oliver  Herford. 

{With  permission  of  the  author.) 

Louvain.  On  Wednesday,  August  26,  1914,  the  Ger- 
mans bombarded  Louvain  and  set  fire  to  the  town,  the 
greater  part  of  which  was  a  prey  to  the  flames,  including 


414  Old  Belgium 

the  Church  of  St.  Pierre,  the  University,  the  Municipal 
Theatre,  and  modern  buildings. 

Perhaps  no  church  in  Europe  conveyed  such  an 
impression  of  picturesque  ruggedness  as  the  Church 
of  St.  Pierre  at  Louvain,  a  worthy  rival  of  Notre 
Dame  of  Antwerp  and  St.  Rombault  at  Malines;  for 
though  perhaps  a  century  more  modern,  it  was  built 
at  one  time  on  a  uniform  and  consistent  plan.  "The 
facade,"  says  Fergusson,  "which  would  have  rendered 
it  the  noblest  building  of  the  three,  has  never  been  com- 
pleted. It  was  designed  on  the  true  German  principle 
of  a  great  western  screen,  surmounted  by  three  spires, 
the  central  one  535  feet  in  height,  the  other  two  430 
feet  each." 

Opposite  the  south  transept  of  St.  Pierre,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  little  "Grande  Place, " stands  the  H6tel-de- 
Ville,  commenced  in  1448  and  constructed  fifteen  years 
later,  the  work  of  the  architect  Mathieu  Layens.  Its 
facade  is  remarkable  for  the  unimaginable  richness  of 
its  sculpture  and  its  slender  balconied  minarets. 

The  famous  University  boasted  its  four  thousand 
scholars  and  its  forty-three  colleges  about  the  year 
1600.  In  a  narrow  street  west  of  the  H6tel-de-Ville 
was  housed  the  great  University  Library,  whose 
burning  has  been  likened  to  that  of  Alexandria.  Its 
massive  sixteenth-century  facade  like  the  Florentine 
palaces  was  designed  to  resist  attack  and  possessed 
originally  no  windows  on  the  ground  floor — only  a 


Museum  Square,  Ypres,  after  the  bombardment 

From  :i  copyright  photograph  by  the  Topical  News  Agency 


The  Cloth-Hall  Tower,  Ypres 

From  a  drawing  by  Albert  Chanler 


Examples  of  Belgian  Architecture     415 

great  Gothic  door.  This  doorway  led  to  a  Romanesque 
hallway  from  which  a  grand  staircase  communicated 
with  the  library  above,  an  imposing  gallery  with  carved 
baroque  bookcases  and  eighteenth-century  ceiling. 

The  lower  part  of  the  town  with  its  charming  Church 
of  St.  Gertrude,  whose  open  spire  is  a  perfect  jewel, 
has  fortunately  suffered  but  little  from  the  bombard- 
ment, and  its  delightful  transitional  choir-stalls  have 
escaped  injury. 

Malines.  What  lover  of  Belgium  does  not  re- 
member with  De  Morgan  the  carillon  of  St.  Rombault 
sounding  through  the  hours  and  quarters  of  the  night: 

"  Void  le  sabre,  le  sabre,  le  sabre, 
Void,  le  sabre,  le  sabre,  de  mon  pere ; 

at  the  rate  of  one  sabre  for  the  first  quarter,  two  for 
the  half -hour,  and  the  whole  regiment  for  the 
three-quarters." 

Its  colossal  buttressed  tower  "flinging  itself  mightily 
into  the  sky"  gives  a  shock  of  delight  at  every  glimpse, 
and  yet  it  was  only  carried  to  half  its  intended  height  of 
550  feet.  The  church  is  one  of  the  finest  that  have  made 
use  of  round  pillars  instead  of  the  clustered  columns  of 
its  period. 

Malines  was  an  undefended  town,  a  treasury  of  other 
works  of  art  and  yet  it  was  several  times  bombarded. 

Termonde.  Termonde,  a  quaint  town  of  about 
16,000,  contained  several  buildings  of  exceptional  in- 


416  Old  Belgium 

terest.  It  was  completely  demolished  by  the  Teuton 
hordes,  not  by  bombardment  but  by  deliberate  destruc- 
tion. In  each  house  a  separate  bomb  was  exploded 
which  set  fire  to  its  interior.  The  Church  of  St.  Giles 
had  its  vaults  blown  in.  The  H6tel-de-Ville,  one  of  the 
most  picturesque  of  the  smaller  town-halls  of  Belgium, 
is  in  ruins  and  its  bells  litter  the  ground. 

Tournai.  The  Cathedral  of  Notre  Dame,  four  hun- 
dred feet  long,  contains  Romanesque  portions  which 
date  back  to  the  eleventh  century.  Its  choir  and  princi- 
pal portal  are  Gothic  of  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth 
respectively.  The  most  ancient  part  is  Romanesque 
and  is  separated  into  three  naves.  Lighter  and  more 
fantastic  are  the  transepts  where  the  architect  allowed 
his  fancy  full  play  without,  however,  marring  its 
harmonious  solemnity.  Grouped  about  "the  crossing" 
are  five  lofty  towers,  in  which  pointed  and  round-arched 
windows  exist  side  by  side. 

Ypres.  Of  all  Belgium  cities,  says  Middleton,1 
Ypres,  has  suffered  most  at  the  hands  of  the  Germans 
in  the  recent  war.  No  important  group  of  Gothic 
buildings  in  Europe,  except  perhaps  the  Houses  of 
Parliament  at  Westminster,  could  compare  with  that 
of  the  Grande  Place  of  Ypres,  the  largest  square  in 
Belgium. 

The  H6tel-de-Ville  has  been  entirely  destroyed.  The 
Great  Cloth  Hall  (described  elsewhere),  "unsurpassed 

1  Architectural  Record. 


The  unscathed  statue  of  Van  den  Peereboom,  beside  the  shattered 

church  of  St.  Martin,  Ypres 

From  a  copyright  photograph  !>>■  the  Topical  N'ews  Agency 


"  Its  stately  campanile  flaunts  the  golden  dragon  " 


The  Belfry,  Ghent 

From  a  photograph  by  Levy 


Examples  of  Belgian  Architecture     417 

by  any  secular  building  of  the  Gothic  era,"  is  gutted  and 
demolished,  and  the  Church  of  St.  Martin,  one  of 
the  purest  examples  of  the  thirteenth-century  Gothic 
in  Flanders,  battered  beyond  recognition.  Its  ex- 
quisite choir-stalls,  the  work  of  the  carver  Taillebert 
(1598),  have  happily  escaped  injury  and  together  with 
the  Bishop's  throne  and  florid  late  Renaissance  con- 
fessional-boxes have  remained  intact.  The  Neuwercke 
or  H6tel-de-Ville  (1620)  was  designed  in  1575  by  John 
Sporeman,  an  architect  of  Ghent,  in  the  style  of  the 
Spanish  Renaissance.  It  was  by  no  means  the  equal 
of  its  earlier  neighbours  though  a  picturesque  and 
spirited  piece  of  work.  Ypres  was  besieged  by  the 
British  in  1383  and  its  environs  were  destroyed.  There- 
after the  cloth  trade  declined  and  it  speedily  lost  its 
former  commercial  supremacy.  The  sixteenth  century 
brought  the  Spanish  invasion,  the  town  was  three  times 
sacked  and  reduced  to  a  community  of  5000  souls. 
When  Philip  II.  launched  his  "Victorious  Armada,"  in 
full  confidence  that  he  would  soon  land  in  England, 
he  sent  Mary's  wedding  chest  to  Flanders,  where  it 
still  remains  in  the  Museum  of  Ypres. 

CIVIL  ARCHITECTURE 

"Whatever  opinion  we  may  form  as  to  her  ecclesiasti- 
cal edifices,"  says  Fergusson,  "the  real  architectural 
pre-eminence  of  Belgium  consists  in  her  civil  and  munici- 
pal buildings,  which  surpass  those  of  any  other  country." 

«7 


418  Old  Belgium 

Belfries.  "One  of  the  earliest  architectural  expres- 
sions of  their  newly-acquired  independence  was  the 
erection  of  a  belfry.  The  right  of  possessing  a  bell  was 
one  of  the  first  privileges  granted  in  all  old  charters,  not 
only  as  a  symbol  of  power,  but  as  the  means  of  calling 
the  community  together,  either  with  arms  in  their 
hands  to  defend  their  walls,  to  repress  internal  tumults, 
for  the  election  of  magistrates,  or  for  deliberation  on  the 
affairs  of  the  Commonwealth. 

"Whether  on  the  banks  of  the  Scheldt  or  the  Po,  the 
first  care  of  every  enfranchised  community  was  to 
erect  a  'Tower  of  pride'  proportionate  to  their  great- 
ness. The  tower,  moreover,  was  generally  the  record- 
office  of  the  city,  the  place  where  the  charters  and  more 
important  deeds  were  preserved  secure  from  fire;  and 
in  a  place  sufficiently  fortified  to  protect  them  in  the 
event  of  civic  disturbances. 

"All  these  uses  have  passed  away,  and  most  of  the 
belfries  have  either  fallen  into  neglect  or  been  removed 
or  appropriated  to  other  purposes.  Of  those  remaining, 
the  oldest  seems  to  be  that  of  Tournai,  a  noble  tower, 
though  greatly  altered  and  its  effect  marred  by  modern 
additions.  The  belfry  of  Ghent  was  begun  in  1183, 
but  the  masonry  shaft  was  not  finished  until  1337. 
At  this  date  a  wooden  spire  crowned  it  with  a  total 
height  of  240  feet.  In  1855  this  was  removed  and  the 
tower  completed  according  to  the  original  design. 

"The  belfry  of  Brussels  was  one  of  the  finest  in  the 


"  With  clustered,  corbelled  turrets  " 


The  Belfry  of  Lierre 
hrom  a  drawing  bv  Albert  Chanler 


"  Irresistibly  picturesque  " 


The  Belfry  of  Most 

From  a  drawing  by  Albert  Chanler 


Examples  of  Belgian  Architecture     419 

country,  but  after  various  misfortunes  it  fell  in  17 14, 
and  is  only  known  now  by  a  model  still  preserved  in 
the  city." 

At  Ypres  and  Bruges  the  belfries  form  part  of  the 
great  halls  of  the  city. 

Those  at  Lierre,  Nieuport,  Alost,  Furnes,  and  the 
minor  cities,  have  been  damaged  by  alterations  and  are 
more  interesting  to  the  archaeologist  than  to  the 
architect. 

Municipal  Halls.  "The  great  municipal  halls, 
which  are  found  in  all  the  principal  cities  of  Belgium 
are  of  three  classes:  (1)  Town-halls — the  municipal 
senate-houses  and  courts  of  justice;  (2)  Trade-halls 
or  market  houses,  the  principal  of  which  were  Cloth- 
halls,  cloth  having  been  the  great  staple  manufacture 
of  Belgium  during  the  Middle  Ages;  (3)  the  Guild 
halls,  the  places  of  assembly  of  the  various  trades- 
unions. 

4 '  The  town-hall  at  Bruges  is  perhaps  the  oldest  build- 
ing erected  especially  for  that  purpose  in  Belgium,  the 
foundation  stone  having  been  laid  in  1377.  It  is  a  small 
building,  being  only  88  feet  in  front  by  65  in  depth, 
and  of  a  singularly  pure  and  elegant  design.  Its  small 
size  causes  it  to  suffer  in  comparison  with  the  great 
cloth-hall  and  other  trade  halls  of  the  city.  Massed 
with  the  belfry  in  their  centre  these  occupy  one  end 
of  the  great  Place  and  constitute  a  most  imposing 
composition. 


420  Old  Belgium 

"The  belfry  is  the  most  picturesque  tower  in  the 
country.  Its  original  height  was  356  feet,  which  was 
diminished  by  about  60  feet  by  the  removal  of  the  spire 
in  1 74 1,  though  it  still  towers  above  all  the  buildings 
of  the  city,  and  in  that  flat  country  is  seen  far  and 
wide." 

The  Belfry  of  Bruges 

In  the  market-place  of  Bruges  stands  the  belfry  old  and 

brown; 
Thrice  consumed  and  thrice  rebuilded,  still  it  watches  o'er 

the  town. 

As  the  summer  morn  was  breaking,  on  that  lofty  tower  I 

stood, 
And  the  world  threw  off  the  darkness,  like  the  weeds  of 

widowhood. 

Then  most  musical  and  solemn,  bringing  back  the  olden 

times 
With  their  strange,  unearthly  changes  rang  the  melancholy 

chimes. 

Like  the  psalms  from  some  old  cloister,  when  the  nuns 

sing  in  the  choir; 
And  the  great  bell  tolled  among  them,  like  the  chanting  of 

a  friar. 

Visions  of  the  days  departed,  shadowy  phantoms  filled  my 

brain; 
They  who  live  in  history  only  seemed  to  walk  the  earth 

again; 

I  beheld  proud  Maximilian,  kneeling  humbly  on  the  ground, 
I  beheld  the  gentle  Mary,  hunting  with  her  hawk  and 
hound; 


The  Belfry  of  Bruges 


"  Thrice  consumed  and  thrice  rebuilded,  still  it  watches  o'er  the  town  " 

From  a  drawing  by  Albert  Chanler 


J« 


it! 


5 


£-/.■; 


Examples  of  Belgian  Architecture     421 

I  beheld  the  Flemish  weavers,  with  Namur  and  Juliers 

bold, 
Marching  homeward  from  the  bloody  battle  of  the  Spurs 

of  Gold; 

Saw  the  fight  at  Minnewater,  saw  the  White  Hoods  moving 

west, 
Saw  great  Artevelde  victorious  scale  the  Golden  Dragon's 

nest. 

And  again  the  whiskered  Spaniard  all  the  land  with  terror 

smote ; 
And   again   the  wild  alarum   sounded   from  the  tocsin's 

throat ; 

Till  the  bell  of  Ghent  responded  o'er  lagoon  and  dike  of  sand, 
"I  am  Roland!     I  am  Roland!     There  is  victory  in  the 
land!" 

Hours  had  passed  away  like  minutes;  and,  before  I  was 

aware, 
Lo!     The  shadow  of  the  belfry  crossed  the  sun-illumined 

square. 

Longfellow. 

Ypres.  Of  the  trade  halls  the  Cloth-hall  at  Ypres 
is  the  most  magnificent  as  well  as  the  earliest.  Its 
foundation  stone  was  laid  in  1200  by  Baldwin  of 
Constantinople,  but  it  was  not  completed  until  a 
century  later.  The  facade  is  440  feet  in  length,  "per- 
fectly straight  and  unbroken  from  end  to  end.  The 
windows  of  each  story,  all  of  one  design,  are  repeated 
not  only  along  the  whole  front,  but  at  each  end.     Its 


422  Old  Belgium 

centre  is  emphasized  by  the  lofty  belfry  which  rises 
to  a  height  of  230  feet,  and  by  a  bold  and  beautiful 
angle  pinnacle.  The  whole  is  of  the  pure  architecture 
of  the  thirteenth  century,  and  is  one  of  the  most 
majestic  edifices  of  its  class  to  be  seen  anywhere. 
It  is  extremely  pleasing  from  its  simplicity  and  the 
perfect  adaptation  of  its  exterior  to  its  internal  arrange- 
ments. These  consist  of  one  vast  hall  on  the  ground 
floor,  supported  by  several  ranges  of  columns,  with 
galleries  and  great  halls  above  for  the  use  of  the 
trade  to  which  it  was  appropriated. 

Brussels.  "The  finest  of  the  town -halls  of  Belgium 
is  that  of  Brussels  commenced  in  1401,  and  finished 
in  1455.  In  dimensions  it  is  inferior  to  the  Cloth-hall 
at  Ypres,  being  only  264  feet  in  length  by  about  50  in 
depth,  and  its  details  are  less  pure;  but  the  spire  that 
surmounts  its  centre,  rising  to  the  height  of  374  feet, 
is  unrivalled  by  any  spire  in  Belgium,  and  is  entitled 
to  take  rank  among  the  noblest  examples  in  Europe. 
Notwithstanding  the  age  in  which  it  was  built  it  dis- 
plays no  extravagance,  either  in  design  or  detail;  but 
the  mode  in  which  the  octagon  is  placed  on  the  square, 
and  the  outline  broken  and  varied  by  the  bold  pinnacles 
that  group  around  it,  produce  a  most  pleasing  variety 
without  interfering  with  the  main  structural  lines  of  the 
building." 

Louvain.  "Next  in  importance  to  Brussels  is  the 
well-known  and  beautiful  town-hall  at  Louvain  (1448- 


o 


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Finest  of  the  Town  Halls  of  Belgium  " 


The  H6tel  de  Ville  and  Market  Place,  Brussels 

From  a  copyright  photograph  by  Underwood  &  Underwood,  N.  Y. 


Examples  of  Belgian  Architecture     423 

1463),  certainly  the  most  elaborately  decorated  piece 
of  Gothic  architecture  in  existence.  In  design  it 
follows  very  closely  the  hall  at  Bruges  but  lacks  the 
tower,  which  gives  such  dignity  to  those  at  Brussels 
and  Ypres." 

Ghent.  "Towards  the  end  of  the  same  century 
(1481)  the  inhabitants  of  Ghent  determined  on  the 
erection  of  a  town-hall,  which,  had  it  ever  been  finished, 
would  have  surpassed  all  the  others  in  size  and  magni- 
ficence. After  a  century  of  interrupted  labour  the 
design  was  abandoned  before  it  was  more  than  two- 
thirds  completed,  and  now  that  age  has  softened  its 
extravagances  it  is  a  pleasing  and  beautiful  building. 
Nothing,  however,  can  exceed  the  extent  of  tormented 
and  unmeaning  ornament  that  is  spread  over  every  part 
of  it,  showing  great  richness  certainly,  but  frequently 
degenerating  into  doubtful  taste." 

Oudenaarde.  The  H6tel-de-Ville,  commenced  in 
1527,  completed  in  three  years  under  the  direction  of 
Henri  Van  Pede,  architect  of  Brussels,  is  one  of  the  most 
ornate  examples  of  the  florid  Flemish  Gothic  style.  Its 
charming  facade,  with  arcaded  loggia  and  clock-tower 
terminated  by  a  Renaissance  crown,  was  reproduced 
at  the  Paris  Exposition  of  1900  as  the  Belgian  National 
Pavilion,  a  building  evidently  meant  as  a  copy  of  that 
at  Lou  vain,  but  combining  with  it  a  belfry,  in  imita- 
tion of  that  at  Brussels. 

"The  result  is  certainly  rich  and  pleasing  in  general 


424  Old  Belgium 

effect;  but  the  details  incidental  to  its  age  (1525)  have 
marred  the  execution  and  given  to  the  whole  a  clumsi- 
ness and  aflimsiness  that  greatly  detract  from  its  beauty. 
Even  the  effect  of  the  belfry  is  spoiled  by  the  temptation 
to  exhibit  a  masonic  trick,  and  make  it  appear  as  if 
standing  on  the  two  slight  pillars  of  the  porch.  It  is 
clever,  but  apparent  stability  is  as  necessary  to  true 
architectural  beauty  as  real  stability  is  to  the  dignity 
of  the  art." 

Mons.  Among  the  smaller  halls  that  of  Mons  is 
perhaps  the  most  elegant  and  is  very  similar  to  that  of 
St.  Quentin,  which,  though  now  in  France,  was  a 
Flemish  city  at  the  time  of  its  erection. 

"In  the  days  of  her  magnificence  Mechlin  attempted 
the  erection  of  a  splendid  hall,  which  was  intended  to 
rival  those  of  any  of  the  neighbouring  towns.  Civic 
troubles,  however,  put  a  stop  to  the  work  before  it  was 
carried  so  far  as  to  enable  us  now  even  to  determine 
what  the  original  design  may  have  been." 

Among  minor  edifices  of  the  same  class  may  be 
mentioned  the  Boucheries  or  meat-markets  of  Diet, 
Ypres,  Antwerp,  the  boatmen's  lodge  at  Ghent,  and  the 
burgesses'  lodge  at  Bruges. 

Palaces.  "Of  palaces,  properly  so  called,  little  re- 
mains in  Belgium  worthy  of  notice,  unless  it  be  the 
palace  of  the  Bishop  of  Liege  (1508),  which,  so  far  as 
size  and  richness  of  decoration  are  concerned,  deserves 
the  reputation  it  has  attained.     Of  the  same  age  and 


Age  has  softened  its  extravagances  " 


Hotel  de  Ville,  Ghent 

From  a  photograph  by  W.  A.  Mansell  &  Co. 


The  H6tel  de  Ville  of  Oudenarde 


M  One  of  the  most  ornate  examples  of  Flemish  Gothic  " 

From  a  photograph  by  W.  A.  Mansell  &  Co. 


Examples  of  Belgian  Architecture     425 

style  was  the  Exchange  at  Antwerp  (15 15).  Its 
simpler  and  more  monumental  character  seems  to  have 
preserved  it  from  the  individual  caprices  which  are 
apparent  in  the  palace." 

RESIDENTIAL   ARCHITECTURE 

"Of  a  charming  simplicity  and  sober  restraint  is  the 
house  of  Curtice  on  the  banks  of  the  Meuse  near  Liege, 
with  its  fine  cornice,  decorative  brick-work,  and  well- 
proportioned  windows." 

The  palace  of  Cardinal  Granvelle  at  Brussels,  now 
a  part  of  the  University,  is  redolent  with  Italian 
influences  and  is  built  about  a  courtyard  reminiscent 
of  Genoa. 

"Many  of  the  private  dwellings  in  the  Flemish  cities 
are  picturesque  and  elegant — though  hardly  rising  to 
the  grade  of  specimens  of  fine  art ;  but  when  grouped 
together  in  the  narrow  winding  streets,  or  along  the 
banks  of  the  canals,  the  result  is  so  varied  and  charm- 
ing that  we  are  inclined  to  ascribe  to  them  more  intrinsic 
beauty  than  they  really  possess  as  individual  designs. 
Most  of  them  are  of  brick,  and  the  brick  being  used 
undisguisedly  and  the  buildings  depending  wholly  on 
such  forms  as  could  be  given  to  that  material,  they  never 
offend  our  taste  by  shams;  and  the  honest  endeavour 
of  the  citizens  to  ornament  their  dwellings  externally, 
meets  here  with  the  success  that  must  always  follow 
such  an  attempt." 


426  Old  Belgium 

PART  II — RENAISSANCE  ARCHITECTURE.1 

In  the  course  of  the  sixteenth  century  Italian  influ- 
ences began  to  make  themselves  felt  in  the  architecture 
of  Belgium.  The  later  Gothic  monuments  possessed 
no  longer  the  purity  of  style  of  their  predecessors. 
They  were  none  the  less  original  and  beautiful,  but  their 
former  restraint  had  given  place  to  a  lavish  and  fantas- 
tic profusion  of  ornament.  The  architects  abandoned 
the  Gothic  style  as  being  too  barbarous  and  plunged 
themselves  with  enthusiasm  into  the  current  of  the 
Renaissance. 

In  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century  Pierre  Coecke 
of  Antwerp  published  a  translation  of  Serlio's  work  on 
Architecture  which  initiated  his  compatriots  into  the 
principles  of  Vitruvius.  At  the  same  period  Hans 
Bloem  published  a  book,  The  Five  Orders  of  Architecture, 
and  Vredemand  de  Vries  followed  with  seven  volumes 
of  excellent  examples  of  the  revived  classic.  There- 
after the  pointed  arches  and  vertical  lines  of  the 
mediaeval  Gothic  made  way  for  Roman  columns  and 
formal  horizontal  cornices. 

Among  the  most  important  examples  of  this  period 
is  the  Hdtel-de-Ville  of  Antwerp  (1561  to  1563),  de- 
signed by  Corneille  Floris,  a  vast  structure  in  which 
superimposed    pilasters    crowned   by    a   loggia   flank 

1  Histoire  de  I' Art  de  Flandre,  by  Max  Rooses,  Conservateur  of  the 
Plantin-Moretus  Museum,  Antwerp. 


"  Forty  statued  niches  and  lofty  lancet  windows  " 


Hotel  de  Ville,  Bruges 

From  a  photograph  by  W.  A.  Mansell  &  Co. 


f 

S 


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Examples  of  Belgian  Architecture     427 

a  projecting  central  motive,  lifting  its  columned 
arcade  in  a  monumental  stepped  gable  high  above 
the   roof. 

A  more  charming  though  much  smaller  building  of 
about  the  same  date  is  the  Justice  de  Paix  at  Bruges, 
where  the  richest  Renaissance  detail  overlays  a  sub- 
structure of  Gothic  proportions. 

Among  the  Guild  Halls  and  Corporations,  most 
noteworthy  in  elegance  of  proportion  and  sobriety  of 
design,  are  the  houses  of  the  Drapers  and  Tanners  at 
Antwerp  (1541),  the  house  of  the  Fishmongers  (le 
Saumon)  at  Malines  (1530),  which  latter,  in  spite  of 
unhappy  restoration,  still  remains  perhaps  the  most 
graceful  structure  of  the  early  Renaissance. 

JESUIT  CHURCHES  OF  THE  SEVENTEENTH  AND  EIGHTEENTH 

CENTURIES 

Professor  Conrado  Ricci  tells  us  in  a  recent  book  that 
the  aim  of  the  Baroque  architect  was  to  instil  a  feeling 
of  wonder  into  the  mind  of  the  beholder. ' 

At  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century,  under 
the  reign  of  Albert  and  Isabella,  innumerable  churches 
were  erected  in  all  the  cities  of  the  country.  Jacques 
Francquart  of  Brussels  planned  the  Church  of  the 
Jesuits  of  that  city  (1617)  and  the  Beguinage  at  Malines; 
Wenceslas  Coberger,  the  churches  of  the  Augustines 
and   Carmelites   at    Brussels;    Pierre    Huyssens   built 

1  Ricci,  Baroque  A  rchitecture  in  Spain  and  Italy. 


428  Old  Belgium 

the  churches  of  the  Jesuits  at  Antwerp,  Bruges,  and  Na- 
mur,  as  well  as  the  abbey  of  St.  Peter  at  Ghent  (1621), 
and  Guillaume  Hersius  in  1650  to  1670  constructed  the 
Church  of  St.  Michael  at  Louvain. 

All  these  Jesuitical  designs  exhibit  the  same  char- 
acteristics— a  vast  screen  of  superimposed  orders,  fram- 
ing heavily  ornamented  doors  and  windows  crowned  by 
monstrous  consoles  and  overpowering  pediment. 

The  delicate  refinement  of  the  early  Renaissance 
and  its  capricious  charm  gave  place  to  massive  forms 
over-ornamented,  pompous,  ponderous,  and  dull. 

The  most  remarkable  of  the  Jesuit  churches  is  that 
of  Antwerp  (1614  to  1621)  whose  opulently  decorated 
facade  and  robust  tower  entitle  it  to  rank  as  the  best 
example  of  the  Second  Renaissance.  The  primitive 
structure  was  resplendent  with  marbles,  gilding,  and  no 
less  than  twenty  mural  paintings  by  Rubens.  In 
17 18,  a  conflagration  destroyed  the  greater  portion  of 
the  interior,  only  sparing  the  choir  and  lateral  chapels, 
which  still  display  their  sumptuous  adornments.  The 
architecture  of  this  period  has  often  been  erroneously 
termed  "the  Jesuit  Style"  though  it  was  that  of  all 
churches  of  the  seventeenth  century.  It  has  also  been 
called  "le  Style  Rubens"  under  the  misconception 
that  the  illustrious  painter  designed  the  Jesuit  Church 
of  Antwerp. 

In  point  of  fact  Rubens  never  drew  plans  for  any  work 
of  architecture  except  his  own  house,   in  which  he 


Guilds  of  the  Boatmen  (Ghent) 
From  a  drawing  bv  Albert  Chanler 


"  Refinement  gave  place  to  the  massive,  the  ponderous  and  dull" 


Porte  de  L'Escaut,  Antwerp 

From  a  drawing  by  Albert  Chanler 


Examples  of  Belgian  Architecture     429 

reconciled  the  sunny  splendour  of  the  Genoese  palaces 
with  the  rigours  of  a  northern  climate. 

Guild-Halls.  Many  of  the  famous  guild-houses  are 
designed  in  this  luxurious  late  Renaissance  of  which 
perhaps,  the  most  noteworthy  is  the  house  of  "The 
Tanners"  (1644)  purchased  in  1755  by  The  Carpenters, 
in  the  "Grande  Place"  at  Antwerp. 

In  1695  when  Brussels  was  bombarded  by  the 
French  army,  a  considerable  number  of  its  guild  houses 
were  destroyed.  The  H6tel-de-Ville  and  La  Maison  du 
Roi  (Broodhuis),  a  little  jewel  of  late  Gothic  art,  alone 
escaped.  The  municipal  government  ordered  the 
immediate  reconstruction  of  "The  Guilds,"  which  took 
place  1696  to  1699. 

This  transformed  the  "Grande  Place"  of  Brussels 
into  a  forum  which  for  picturesqueness  and  fantasy 
is  unsurpassed  by  any  square  in  Northern  Europe. 
Of  this  Baroque  architecture  one  of  the  most  striking 
examples  is  that  of  the  Guild  of  the  Boatmen  (bateliers) 
in  which  the  pediment  that  terminates  its  graceful 
facade  represents  the  stern  of  a  ship. 

Rheims.  Though  Rheims  is  no  longer  a  Belgian  city, 
any  enumeration  of  that  country's  losses  in  noble  build- 
ings seems  incomplete  without  mention  of  the  Cathedral, 
raised  on  what  was  once  her  soil,  where  her  first  great 
Apostle,  St.  Remi,  baptized  her  first  Christian  King. 

Arnold  Bennett,  in  writing  its  requiem,  closes  with 
the  prophecy  of  its  resurrection : 


430  Old  Belgium 

"But  the  Cathedral  stands.  Its  parvis  is  grass 
grown;  the  hotels  on  the  parvis  are  heavily  battered, 
and  if  they  are  not  destroyed,  it  is  because  the  Cathedral 
sheltered  them,  but  the  Cathedral  stands,  high  above 
the  level  of  disaster,  a  unique  target  and  a  target 
successfully  defiant.  The  outer  roof  is  quite  gone. 
Much  masonry  is  smashed;  some  of  the  calcined  statues 
have  exactly  the  appearance  of  tortured  human  flesh, 
but  in  its  essence,  the  building  remains  apparently  un- 
conquerable. The  towers  are  particularly  serene  and 
impressive.  The  deterioration  is,  of  course,  tremen- 
dously severe.  Scores  of  statues,  each  of  which  was  a 
masterpiece,  are  spoiled.  Great  quantities  of  carvings 
are  defaced,  quite  half  the  glass  is  irremediably  broken. 
The  whole  of  the  interior  non-structural  decoration  is 
destroyed.  But  the  massiveness  of  the  Cathedral  has 
withstood  German  shrapnel.  The  place  will  never  be 
the  same.  Nevertheless  Rheims  Cathedral  trium- 
phantly exists."1 

Mr.  Thomas  Hardy,  who  began  his  career  as  an 
ecclesiastical  architect,  in  speaking  of  the  restoration  of 
the  Cathedral  of  Rheims  says:  "What  is  gone  of  thir- 
teenth century  craftsmanship,  is  gone  forever.  The 
mediaeval  artist  has  no  fellow  of  the  present  day  and 
until  another  race  of  craftsmen  come  with  another 
age  of  faith,  his  work  cannot  truly  be  replaced.  Heine 
long  ago  foretold  that  the  Huns  should  again  traverse 

1  Saturday  Evening  Post,  September  18,  1915. 


T    ( ■■■.•!   :    :     jt-r.  .  | 
f  • 


pq 


a  j= 


Ek 


"  Christ  Is  Fallen  " 

Reproduced  by  permission  of  The  Daily  Mirror,  London 


Examples  of  Belgian  Architecture     431 

the  land  and  hammer  to  bits  the  Gothic  cathedrals,  and 
the  fearful  truth  of  that  prophecy  is  now  borne  down 
upon  us  as  we  contemplate  the  glory  that  was  Rheims." 

From  the  high  altar  of  its  shattered  cathedral  and  the 
rustic  crucifix  of  many  a ' '  f  our-went-way , ' '  the  sculptured 
Christ  hath  fallen.  To  sorrowing  devotees  this  must 
typify  the  triumph  of  the  Powers  of  Darkness,  for  we  can 
only  see  "as  in  a  glass  darkly  "  the  beginning  of  the  end. 

"resurgo." 

Christ  is  fallen !     Christ  is  fallen ! 

From  the  high  cathedral  choir, 

And  the  crucifix  lies  shattered, 

Trampled  in  the  bloody  mire. 

Shattered  too,  the  lancet  windows  with  their  glowing  eyes 

of  glass. 
Shattered   too,    the  carven   choir-stalls   and   the  organ's 

sounding  brass. 
Shattered  too,  the  airy  narthex  and  its  "rose"  of  frosted 

lace. 
Christ  is  fallen !     Christ  is  fallen! 
From  his  lone  and  lofty  place. 

Christ  is  fallen !     Christ  is  fallen ! 
From  the  chimeless  belfry  down, 
And  the  ripple  of  its  laughter 
Ne'er  will  thrill  the  brave  old  town, 
Ringing  over  roof  and  rafter, 
Tocsin,  dirge,  and  carillon. 
Christ  is  fallen !     Christ  is  fallen ! 
From  the  chimeless  belfry  down. 


432  Old  Belgium 

Christ  is  fallen!    Christ  is  fallen! 

From  the  altar  where  we  pray; 

But  the  minster  still  gleams  golden 

With  the  stm's  last  molten  ray, 

And  each  carven  angel  olden, 

In  the  shadow  of  the  portal, 

Seems  to  spring  to  life  and  say: 

"Christ  is  fallen,  Christ  immortal, 

But  from  sepulchre  triumphant  will  arise  on  Easter  Day!" 


THE  END 


Ji  Selection  from  the 
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Romance  of  the  Feudal  Chateaux 

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New  York  G.    P.    Putnam's    SODS  London 


Alsace  and  Lorraine 

From  Caesar  to  Kaiser,  58  B.C.  1871  A.D. 

$(/  Ruth  Putnam 

Author  of  "Charles  the  Bold,"  "William  the  Silent," 
"A  Mediaeval  Princess,"  etc 

8°.     With  8  Maps.    $1.25 

From  the  dim  days  of  European  struggle, 
Alsace  and  Lorraine  have  constituted  one  of 
the  chief  storm-centers  of  rival  ambitions.  Their 
history  has,  therefore,  an  intrinsic  importance 
which  attaches  to  few  land  groups  of  similar  area. 
As  the  almost  inevitable  prize  of  a  victorious 
France,  they  have  a  special  claim  upon  the 
attention  of  those  interested  in  the  possible  out- 
come of  the  present  clash  of  nations. 

Chapters 

Alsace — Romans,  Gauls,  and  Others  on  the  Soil 
of  Alsace — The  Treaties  of  Verdun  and  Other 
Pacts  Affecting  Alsace — The  Dream  of  a  Middle 
Kingdom — The  People  of  Alsace  in  the  15th 
Century  and  After— The  Thirty  Years  of  War 
and  the  Peace  of  Westphalia— Louis  XIV  and 
Strasburg — Alsace  after  Annexation  to  France 
— Lorraine  in  Several  Phases  of  its  History — 
Alsace-Lorraine,  1871-1914. 

New  York    G.  P.  Putnam's  SoilS    London 


By  Ellse  Whitlock  Rose  and  Vida 
Hunt  Francis 

Octavo.     Each  in  Two  Volumes.     Gilt  tops,  stamped 

on  side  with  Full  Gilt  and  Color.     Boxed 

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Cathedrals  and  Cloisters  o!  the  Isle 
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Including  Bourges,  Troyes,  Reims,  and  Rouen 
With  250  Illustrations  from  Original  Photographs 

Cathedrals  and  Cloisters  of  Midland 
France 

Burgundy,  Savoy,  Dauphine,  Auvergne,  Acquitaine 

With  5  Photogravure  and  268  other  Illustrations  from 

Original  Photographs  and  a  Map 

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With  4  Photogravure  and  200  other  Illustrations  from 

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Laval,  Normandy,  Brittany 

225  Photogravures  and  Other  Illustrations  from  Original 

Photographs 

"  One  of  the  best  books  we  have  read  for  many  a  day. . . . 
Interesting  in  its  material  and  information  and  charming 
in  its  method  of  presentation.  ...  To  lovers  and  students 
of  architecture,  the  illustrations  in  these  beautiful  volumes 
will  be  found  more  attractive  than  the  letterpress,  and 
this  is  itself  of  charming  quality." — London  Spectator. 

"  Miss  Francis's  work  as  a  photographer  is  characteristic 
of  technical  ability,  artistic  selection  of  models,  and  a 
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New  York     G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons      London 


HISTORIC  STATES  OF  ITALY 

A  Series  of  Histories  of  the  Italian  States. 
Each  State  is  treated  as  a  separate  entity;  and 
the  fulness  of  the  treatment  is  determined  by 
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European  history. 

These  narrations  are  histories  in  the  widest  sense  of  the 
term.  They  describe  not  only  the  political  life  of  the  people, 
but  treat  also  of  the  geographical  conditions  which  influence 
their  temperament,  and  affect  those  social  and  commercial 
impulses  which  in  turn  create  or  modify  their  political  move- 
ments. At  the  same  time,  the  history  of  the  art  and  litera- 
ture of  each  State  is  briefly  told. 

MILAN :  The  House  of  Sforza. 

Illustrated.     8vo.     $3.50  net.  By  C.  M.  Ady 

PERUGIA.      By  William  Heywood 
Illustrated.     8vo.     $3.50  net. 

VERONA.      By  A.  M.  Allen 
Illustrated.     8vo.     $3  50  net. 

In  Preparation/ 

NAPLES:  The  House  of  Anjou. 

Mr.  G.  Baskerville 
NAPLES:  The  House  of  Aragon. 

Mr.  E.  C.  Cleveland- Stevens 
MILAN :  The  House  of  Visconti. 

Mr.  L.  Stampa 
FERRARA.     Mr.  Horatio  F.  Brown 
MANTUA.     Miss  M.  I.  Robertson 
BOLOGNA.     Mr.  E.  S.  Lyttel 
PARMA  and  PIACENZA.     Miss  B.  A.  Lees 
THE  HOUSE  OF  SAVOY.     Mrs.  H.  M.  Vernon 
PISA.     Mr.   William  Heywood 

Send  /or  Descriptive  Circular 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

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